


Eyes Like Knives

by jennyfly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennyfly/pseuds/jennyfly
Summary: Destiel.When rockstar Dean Winchester comes home to Austin to play a stop on his sold-out tour, he's surprised after the encore by a hot cop barging backstage to deliver some awful news. Not only is Detective Castiel Novak the bearer of bad news, but he also wants to question Dean's estranged brother, Sam. Can a frantic police investigation over the course of a single weekend result in a lasting romance? Hey, this is fanfiction; why not?





	1. Friday night: 2am-ish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [palominopup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/palominopup/gifts).



> This Destiel work is from a prompt suggested by palominopup on her fb group about a Rockstar (Dean) and a Detective with Austin Police Department (Cas). I am grateful to her for letting me use her idea and bring it to life here. I hope I do it justice.  
> I need to thank give_it_a_little_nudge for encouraging and inspiring me throughout the process.

Dean:

            The end of the encore had Dean Winchester’s voice raspy and his body buzzing. The shots he’d downed before running back onstage to play his first-ever hit had that electric numbness in his fingertips and a loose and easy smile on his face. He took the little tray of shot glasses Charlie was holding for him and shot one quick before also stealing her towel to wipe off as much of the night as he could on his way back to the green room.

            Grimacing after his second shot, “Let a few of them in,” he said to security on his way through the door. They more-or-less knew his type and would let in at least one or two good ones. Dean needed to let off some steam after playing his heart out. Being back home in Austin was a double-edged sword.

            On the one hand, he had friends here, people who knew him from before, people who thought they knew him best; on the other hand, the ones he really wanted to see… But that’s not a thought for tonight. His third shot went smoothly down a numb throat. The green room door was opened before he had even finished changing his shirt, and thinking about Sam just then would be a downer. It wasn’t family he needed right then anyway.

            What Dean Winchester needed was booze, sex, and rock-n-roll. Not _all_ the booze, though; he didn’t like people to think it was like that. If there was anything he hated it was when someone pulled a Sam and accused him of being out of control with the drinking. He just liked to be loose after a show, but he wasn’t one of those partiers without an off-switch. So yeah, booze sex and rock-n-roll were all Dean needed and all he had left since his brother had written him off.

            After those three shots, time lurched like it was in the wrong gear, and Dean knew he’d had enough to drink for a while. He looked around and remembered the sold-out show in his hometown. He was in the green room, pants unzipped, while a cute blonde and an equally attractive twink shared his cock. Life was good, or so he told himself in his alcoholic haze. He let his eyes close so he could just feel.

            The door crashed open and the security man’s yelling got Dean’s eyes to focus on the scene. In walked one of the hottest men Dean had ever seen. Tall, wild fucking hair, wearing a suit and trench coat. Dean saw more of the security team gather up behind him. “Don’t worry, guys, he’s good...” To the man, Dean grinned and said, “There’s plenty to go around, Sweetheart.” To prove his point, he thrust into a hot mouth.

            Dean watched as disgust and rage (and was that pity?) flitted over the man’s handsome features until only a stoic mask remained. He moved his coat aside to flash his badge. “Detective Castiel Novak,” he said in introduction and then barreled on. “Dean Winchester, I regret to inform you that your godfather, Robert Singer, was shot and killed in his home earlier this evening.”

            Shock and pain cut quickly through the buzz from the shots he’d done. He stood abruptly, sending both his partners tumbling to the floor. He hastily tucked his cock into his jeans, his erection a thing of the past. “What? How...” Dean’s mind was racing and he couldn’t form thoughts or even words.

            “Do you know where I can find your brother, Samuel Winchester?” Dean’s brain finally caught up with the man’s question. He saw the gold shield attached to his belt and a glimpse of a leather holster. Cop.

            “Sam? Why?” He hadn’t seen Sam in months. Not since their blowup. Sam thought Dean needed a break from the road. He thought Dean was drinking too much and had accused him of doing drugs. Pffft. As if John Winchester’s son would even touch a pill bottle.

            “He was seen leaving Mr. Singer’s home shortly before the body was discovered.” Dean didn’t need to be told that Sam was a ‘person of interest’. Sam was a lot of things, but he’d never hurt Bobby. Bobby. Bobby was dead.

            “Sam loves Bobby.” Dean paused. “Loved Bobby. You’re barking up the wrong tree, man.” The cop inclined his head, but his expression remained neutral.

            “Be that as it may, Mr. Winchester, I will need to talk to your brother.”

            “I don’t know where he is,” Dean said honestly. Sam lived here in Austin, sure, but he’d bet his next album sales that the cops had already been to his house. This cop looked like he didn’t believe Dean, but he nodded curtly.

            “As next of kin, we will need you to come identify the body.” _The body?_ Bobby’s body. Dean felt a wave of nausea sweep over him.

 

Cas:

            Getting called to a murder scene at midnight on a Friday wasn’t unusual. Going backstage at a rock concert and seeing the star with his cock being sucked by two groupies was.

            He’d heard of Dean Winchester. Castiel’s teenage daughter loved the guy’s music, and posters of the rock god hung all over her room... well, the room she stayed in at her mother’s. The detective hadn’t gotten around to getting a big enough place since his promotion for Claire to have a room with him.

            Castiel shouldn't have been surprised at the scene that greeted him when he delivered the news to said rock star. Celebrities like the infamous Dean Winchester took what they wanted and fuck the consequences. Sure, those two kids sprawled on the floor would have a story to tell their friends, but one day they’d wake up and realize they were just something to use and throw away.

            He usually had better decorum when informing the families of murder victims of their loved-one’s death, but seeing _that_ and smelling the alcohol and the lingering, unmistakable odor of pot told him all he needed to know about Dean Winchester. He wanted to scrub that image out of his mind and focus on catching a murderer.

            As Detective Novak drove to the morgue, Winchester sitting silently beside him, he forced himself to work the case. He didn’t believe in coincidences. What were the odds of the musician playing in the same town, on the same night, when Singer was murdered? Yes, he had an airtight alibi as thousands of screaming fans could attest, but his brother... not so much.

            When he had arrived at the scene of the crime a couple of hours earlier, it had already been crawling with uniforms. The 911 call had come in from Sam Winchester himself, so Cas sent a team to Samuel Winchester’s residence. They found it empty with clean dishes in the draining board and fresh fruit in the fruit bowl, so nothing looked suspect.

            Bobby’s Singer’s compound, for want of a better term, however, was a wreck. There were as many bottles of whiskey in there as he had seen in back stage at Winchester’s show. The residence at the salvage yard was above the garage bays, and the number one witness was a mechanic who worked there. He had seen Sam Winchester pulling into the compound after closing hours the on the evening of the murder. Nothing unusual about that, since the Winchesters were Singer’s only family, but since that was the last activity on the scene before the 911 call came in, Sam needed to answer quite a few questions.

            Lost in his thoughts, Castiel drove on autopilot to Seton Medical and parked in a spot designated for police in the garage. The whole way Winchester had remained silent, just the scent of alcohol and sweat occasionally reminding Castiel he was not alone.

            Needless to say, the elevator down to the morgue was silent, too. Castiel took the time to look over the man with him. A few gallons of dried sweat gave him a shipwrecked appearance, along with his red-rimmed eyes and the pallor of shock. Clearly, Castiel was not seeing this man on his best day. Still, his best day must be breathtaking because, my God, was he handsome in person. The posters on his daughter’s bedroom wall that he had never given more than a glance to did not do justice to the sensual mouth. Dean’s lips, even thinned out in a pressed frown were still beautiful and inviting. _And his eyes_. Despite the fluorescent light of the elevator, the green of early spring bud was striking.

            The ding of arrival shook both of them out of reverie, and Castiel had a fleeting moment of wonder about what the other man had been thinking. He shook his head slightly. He was thinking of Bobby Singer, no doubt. From his brief background investigation, Castiel knew Singer was more of a father to the Winchester brothers than their own dad had been before his death a decade earlier.

            The task at hand was not a pleasant one. Castiel could tell Dean Winchester was in a daze through the paperwork. He only let his eyes rest on the face of the corpse for a fraction of a second, no doubt wishing he could unsee the hole in the center of the forehead. Once the forms were signed, Castiel set a cup of coffee in front of Dean and took a minute to sit across from him at the yellowing Formica table.

            "So, it was a big night?" Castiel posited.

            “Really, man? Are we doing this now? It’s past three.”

            “I heard the show sold out in forty minutes last April.”

            “We’re doing this,” Dean sighed, and scrubbed his face with his hands. His stubble was thick, his eyes scratchy, and his throat a bit sore. "Coming home is always a big show."

            "You certainly seemed to be celebrating back at the venue."

            "Work hard; play hard."

            "And yet some folks were missing there tonight."

            For the first time since these volleys began, Dean looked away from those blue, blue eyes. "What's your point?"

            "Where's Sam?"

            "No idea, I told you."

            "Have you heard from him?"

            "No."

            "No 'Break a leg?' No phone call? No text?"

            "I turn my phone off during shows. Phones have been known to spike the mics."

            The detective only looked at Dean intently with his blue, blue eyes. Dean sighed again. His head was slightly bleary from the shots, and the bone tiredness from performing under hot lights with high energy for two hours was setting in. He reached into his pocket and hit the power button on his iPhone as he pulled it free of his jeans. They waited in silence until it pinged a couple dozen times and Dean scrolled through his texts. His brow furrowed, and the detective jumped on the reaction like a cat on a mouse.

            "From Sam?"

            "It's just... I don't know what it is. A UFO, maybe?"

            Castiel tried to read whether Dean was joking, but the singer looked too tired to mess with him just then. Dean turned his phone around and showed the blurred image to the detective.

            It did look like a UFO, if UFOs were rectangular. It was a glowing white rectangle of light hovering in a field of blackness with a few extraneous glimmers radiating outward from it. The detective took the phone from Dean's hand and texted the photo to himself.

            "Hey!"

            "Nothing else?"

            "What the fuck?”

            Castiel ignored the tone of outrage. “No other texts?”

            “Not from Sam."

            "What about from Robert Singer?"

            "No. Nothing from Uncle Bobby." It hurt him to say it. He'd never hear from the old man again.

            Dean startled when a phone rang in the quiet. Detective Novak reached into his coat and muttered a greeting. A few grunts of inquiry then wonder then acknowledgement emanated from him before he stowed the phone and leaned closer to Dean.

            "Mr. Winchester, I'm going to have to ask you not to leave town."

            "Why? I've given you everything I have."

            "A gun has been found on Singer's property."

            "So? Bobby owns lots of guns... Owned."

            "This one was recently discharged."

            "So?"

            "Will it have your brother's prints on it, Mr. Winchester?"

            "Don't call me that. I’m leaving. I’m going home and going to bed."

            Without even considering arguing, Castiel led the shaken man back to the black Chevy Trailblazer they had arrived in.

            “I can, uhh, call a Lyft.”

            “It’s customary for me to get you home safe, to make sure you’re alright.”

            Dean scoffed. “I’m not alright, okay. My father, for all intents and purposes, is dead, and you want to talk to my _brother_ about it, and tonight was supposed to be relaxed--”

            “I do apologize for interrupting your party, Mr. Winchester, but I’m doing my job. Now get in the car, or I’ll call a uniform to take you home if you’re feeling a distaste for my company.” Castiel hadn’t meant to speak so sharply. But it was out there now, and Dean looked like he’d been slapped.

            “I’m sorry,” Castiel mumbled, realizing he had been mean. “It’s late and we’re both prickly from exhaustion.”

            Dean ran a hand down his face, and the fire in his eyes went out. “Yeah.” He reached for the car door handle. “Yeah. It’s … you’re just doing your job, man, but to me, it’s family.”

            Castiel hadn’t expected the defeated tone, and the shuttered emptiness of those eyes seemed wrong. “I’ll find him, Dean. Whoever did this, I’ll find him.”

            Dean nodded and got in the car.


	2. Friday night~3am / Saturday morning~9am

Dean

            Dean had felt the eyes on him in the elevator. _Well, let him look._ But Bobby was dead, and Sam was possibly in some kind of trouble. That meant he didn’t have time for any distractions, no matter how hot the cop was. The elevator dinged, pulling him out of his thoughts.

            Looking back on this later, Dean would think he’d been outside of his body, looking at the scene down in the morgue like a stranger. It was surreal to be walking through this shit green corridor full of buzzing fluorescent lights next to Douchey McCop. Even more surreal was having a bunch of papers shoved at him, the pull of the sheet over Bobby’s face happening before he was ready, the coroner’s assistant’s Smurf scrubs, the too-bright bleachy smell of the place. _It was all too much_. Dean was gonna lose it. He felt sick. Then the third degree.

            _Man-up, Winchester_. He kept his cool for the questions then followed the cop back to the parking garage, and the guy had the fucking nerve to be harsh right now? Dean willed himself to breathe, like the bendy yoga teacher he’d dated taught him all those years ago. _Everything’s a choice, Winchester_. _Choose to be calm. Choose to just put up with this guy for a few more minutes_. He got into the car.

            The cop drove right to his place on the lake without asking directions. Of course, he did. The guy probably knew everything about him by now. Dean told himself to ask what part of Austin the guy’s from, but his mouth didn’t listen. In fact, most of his body was just plain checked out.

            At the gate, Dean had to tell him the code to enter the property, and it was like a miracle he had the email from Charlie on his phone to get this month’s numbers. Charlie took care of the place, which included security, opening his mail, and sorting junk from stuff she could answer to stuff he had to deal with himself. She also stocked the kitchen and kept the maid service scheduled for laundry and cleaning. _All the things_. Charlie did all the things. That’s what BFFs were for, though. Her words, not his. Too bad Charlie wasn’t there tonight. He could have used a friendly face. But she was in Houston, the next stop on the tour, taking care of final details for him before the band got there next week.

            The cop walked Dean to his door, and it was like an awkward high school date for a moment. Dean’s brain suggested asking the man if he wanted a goodnight kiss at the door, and that thought made him look at those lips again. Luckily, his brain-to-mouth function was still offline, so he just stood there staring for a few seconds which gave the cop the opportunity to talk at him some more.

            “Don’t leave town, Mr. --Dean.”

            “I remember.”

            Castiel held a business card out to the singer. “Call me if you can think of anything.”

            “Huh?”

            “Like I said, if you can think of people who had a grudge, anything personal that might have caused trouble for Bobby Singer, anything at all.”

            “Oh. Yeah. Yeah. I’ll think on it. Tomorrow.” Dean took the card, but didn’t bother looking at it.

            “Of course. Goodnight, Dean.”

            “G’night, uhh,” Dean checked the business card, “Detective Novak.”

            The detective merely nodded to him and turned to go down from the porch, his trench coat flapping behind.

 

**** 

            The next morning, well, later that same morning, Castiel allowed himself to sleep from about six to nine after pulling an all-nighter at his desk. He practically needed a crowbar to pry his weary body out of bed for his run. Living in the Clarksville neighborhood of Austin gave him plenty to see on his morning runs with his dog, Silla. She was a well-behaved Irish wolfhound with a frizzy face and long legs. Usually, they ran all the way up Enfield Road and back down so Cas could really get his heart into the red zone. Then they turned onto West Lynn to hit Nau’s Drugstore for breakfast. It was a legitimate old school soda fountain inside a drug store where locals sat at the counter to eat the best breakfast tacos in town. Silla always waited out front to meet and greet all her neighborhood four-legged pals while Cas sat at the counter inside.

            That morning he got egg, cheese, tomato, and onion tacos with fresh coffee and looked around for a newspaper. There wasn’t one, so he tuned his ears to the local gossip from the other regulars. Castiel loved his neighborhood and his mornings at Nau’s. The best part about the place was that no one took issue with his sweaty, bedraggled appearance when he got there.

            “Morning, Detective. Didn’t think you were going to make it in today,” Trina greeted as she poured his cup of coffee.

            “Good morning, Trina. It was a late night.”

            “I’m afraid it was very bad, but not in this neighborhood. Murder out by the old airport.”

            “Oooh, I read about it in the paper. Singer Salvage.”

            “That’s the one. Any chance the paper’s still around?”

            Trina walked down to where one of the locals had just left and picked up the folded and refolded _Statesman_. She brought it over to Cas and said, “Those tacos will be right out.”

            He nodded absently while skimming through the facts and speculations in the article.

            When his food appeared before him, Cas started eating on automatic while continuing to read. None of his usual busybody acquaintances were in this late in the morning to gossip around him, so he missed their sometimes far-reaching speculation. Instead, the ten o’clock hour saw the place filling up with families who talked too loudly and ordered their food too slowly. Soon the din was more than Cas could take, so he ordered his customary second cup of coffee to go. Silla and Cas walked the short two blocks back home so he could start his day.

 

**** 

            The doorbell roused Dean from a very promising dream, but the details faded quickly as he worked to make sense of the ringing noise. Unfortunately his hard-on didn't fade as fast. Checking his phone he found out it was just past ten am, and he gently crammed himself into last night's jeans from the floor (despite the stink of sweat, smoke, and booze). They didn't do much to hide what was going on with his dick, but he didn't really care as he threw open the door without bothering with a shirt.

            And there was Detective Whats-His-Name with circles under his eyes and a freshly shaved face and that damn trench coat still on. Yeah, so it was slightly nippy in the morning breeze, if Dean's nipples had anything to say about it, but it wasn't exactly coat weather.

            "If you're going to ask me more questions that only _you_ know the answer to, there's going to have to be coffee. And pancakes." Dean turned around but left the door open with Castiel staring after him, and Castiel openly gawked at the man’s tattooed torso.  _That ink!_

            After a moment, though, Cas's brain caught up with the situation and he entered, just in time to hear the shower turn on somewhere in the house. Castiel allowed himself to poke around until the shower turned off: there were photos of the Winchesters with Robert Singer out by the lake, on a boat, and standing by a classic car. Castiel even found some 18-year-old whiskey and a bunch of home-canned jellies and jams. There were envelopes piled on the bar that were yet to be opened and handwritten messages stuck to the fridge with magnets made from CDs.

            When Dean emerged with towel mussed hair and fresh clothes, Castiel half regretted he hadn't committed the tattoos on Dean’s torso to memory while they'd been visible. Still, the man’s arms were bare and beautiful. He fisted his hands to keep them at his sides because his fingers wanted to trace the whorls of color.

 

 

            Magnolia Cafe is open twenty-four-seven, so it's a late night haven for the musicians who help to "Keep Austin Weird" and make it the "Music Capital of Texas." Dean Winchester has had the menu at Magnolia Cafe memorized since he was gigging in high school and sleeping through Government class. His order depends entirely on the amount of time he has been awake. As it stood that morning, he was down for some gingerbread pancakes, eggs, and bacon. And coffee, of course.

            Across the booth from him the detective opened and closed the menu several times without really looking at it, so Dean figured that either he knew the menu already, or he had already eaten. Both men were quick to order coffee as soon as the waiter showed up and introduced himself as Chad. 

            When it came, it was damn good coffee, too. Cas acknowledged that it was better than his usual at Nau's drugstore. But you sacrifice for convenience.

            Once he had drunk deep from his cup, too, Dean ventured the question, "Any luck on identifying the UFO?"

            "Yes, actually. Turns out it's a license plate. The flash on Sam's camera caught it at a bad angle for us, but we're working on a court order to access his AT&T cloud to see if he took any other shots of it."

            "You're snooping through my brother's personal shit?"

            "I'm a detective. That's what I do. Besides, Samuel's right to privacy went right out the window when those prints on the gun did turn out to be his. Same caliber as the slug that took out Mr. Singer as well."

            "Same gun?"

             Castiel checked his watch instead of answering. "Should know pretty soon."

             Never a yes or no answer from this guy.

            When Dean's gingerbread pancakes and Castiel's second cup of coffee showed up, conversation faded for the more important task of eating and drinking. Dean enjoyed his food immensely, and if Castiel was distracted by the sounds Dean made at the first taste of gingerbread and bacon, he didn't let it show. Dean tried not to stare at the detective’s strong hands around the rim of his cup. They both made a good show of ignoring each other.

            After Dean ate, Castiel decided he could answer some questions as they nursed their third cups of coffee. "When was the last time you spoke to Robert Singer?"

            "I don't know. Around the first week of the tour. He always liked me to call him when I'd be traveling. He was like a sheepdog with us, always herding me and Sam, keeping tabs on us, trying to keep us together all the time."

            "Anything memorable about that conversation? Was anything troubling Mr. Singer?"

            "Nah. Bobby was circumspect. He didn't let things bother him in such a way that he would be inclined to complain to me or Sam."

            "He was a father figure, shielding you from trouble.

            Dean sipped his coffee and thought. "I guess? It wasn't so much that he felt a need to protect us. We all, the three of us, looked out for each other."

            "But you said you haven't spoken to Sam in a while."

            Dean shrugged. "We had a falling out, you could say." Dean hoped the detective would leave it alone.

            No such luck. "A falling out? Over what?"

             "Sam came out on a night a lot like last night, not a moment when I was expecting family, but a night when I wanted to let off steam. He thought I was out of control, and he let me hear all about it. I wasn't in the mood to be accused of bullshit, so I took a swing at him to shut him up."

            "I'm sure that helped."

             "Look, the kid knows how to push my buttons, and he pushed them all that night. Everything I did just cemented his misconceptions about what was up with me."

            "You weren't on drugs?"  
  
            "You know how our old man died, Detective Novak?"

             "As a matter of fact, I looked that up. We've got a file on his O.D."

             "So you must think I'm pretty dense if I'd be stupid enough not to learn a lesson from being the one to find him and call it in."

            "You were in high school."

             "And I ended up being all Sammy had while  _he_  was in high school. I played to empty bars on Sixth Street at eight p.m. then swept up empty bars on Sixth Street at three a.m. just to keep my baby brother in mac-n-cheese through his growth spurt. When he got to college, I started touring. The only way I ever recorded anything was because the drummer for the band I was opening for back then was a nice guy with a ton of equipment and a soft heart. His girlfriend-slash-manager liked my music enough to shop it around to a bunch of small labels, and somehow I got picked up by Island right before they merged with Def Jam and got bought out by Universal. Suddenly I was a major label investment with a bus and a headline and a crew and only a dozen songs. I didn't have enough music to play an encore at my own shows, so I'd play covers. I played 'Whole Lotta Love,' screaming the vocals into a coffee can when my voice was shot more times than I can count, and when I come home to Austin and play a show like last night, I inevitably hear a few shouts from the crowd asking for it."

            Dean paused from his monologue and took a deep breath. "So yeah, maybe I'm not a Stanford-educated lawyer like my brother, maybe I dropped out of school, but I'm not so stupid that I'd risk turning purple in a pool of my own excrement like my father."

            Castiel sat rapt through the story and delighted in watching Dean Winchester's expressive face, listening to his low, rough voice. He imagined that he understood why so many people listened to Dean's music. His voice and his passion were mesmerizing, despite the dark subject matter.

            "I would never accuse you of being stupid, Dean," Castiel assured him. He wasn't sure how the debauched man from last night and the tattooed sex god he saw this morning and the intoxicating storyteller who used words like circumspect to describe his godfather added up to one man, but somehow Dean Winchester was real. Castiel felt his impressions shifting in real time.

            If he didn't have a case to solve already, how easily he would fall into the trap of trying to solve the riddle of Dean Winchester?

 


	3. Saturday mid-morning

 

            Castiel turned off MOPAC Expressway onto Enfield Road. "You turned off too early to get to my house," Dean said, puzzled. The cop knew he lived on the lake by the country club.

            "If you don’t mind, I have to swing by my place first to check on something."

            The SUV rumbled up the quiet lane of West Lynn and rolled to a stop outside a three story stone house.

            "Swanky digs."

            "Don't be impressed. I rent the carriage house in back. It's one big room, but it includes the yard for my dog, and the yard is half an acre."

            "Dog?"

            “I was so out of it earlier I can’t remember if I fed her.” Castiel led Dean on a side path and unlocked his door, and an enormous beast nosed over the pair of them.

            "Dean Winchester, meet Silla."

            "Cilla Black?"

            "Drusilla from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I was a fan."

            "You have a tiny house, a giant dog, and good taste in TV. My friend Charlie would love you."

            "Oh really?"

            "It's not what you think. You're not her type."

            "Ah, well. She's not my type either."

            "Oh really?"

            Castiel looked away sharply, shutting himself off from the implication, from the flirtation.

            If Dean was disappointed with the way the detective closed himself off, he didn't let it show. He was exhausted and didn't need to be thinking about sex anyway. His problem was just that his dick was holding the earlier interruption against him. And this guy was making it difficult to not think about sex.

            Catching the singer staring at him, Castiel raised an eyebrow and almost, almost got lost in staring back. Dean was charming, no doubt about it, when he wasn't loaded, anyway. But the debauchery of the night before was still fresh and off-putting.

            Castiel broke the spell by snapping his fingers sharply.

            Silla retreated to her bed when she finished vetting Dean and checking Castiel for treats.

            "She's well-mannered."

            "Training her is an ongoing project."

            "Can she do tricks?"

            Castiel laughed, and Dean was mesmerized by the wholesale change in the detective's face. He had a crinkly, gummy smile that transformed him from gruff to carefree. Dean wanted that face, was curious, not for the first time what the detective would look like when he came.

            "She has one trick. Want to see it?"

            "Absolutely."

            "Silla." Her head perked up. Castiel gestured toward the kitchenette. "Silla get in the oven."

            "What?!"

            "Hush, Dean. Silla, get in the oven." He gestured again.

            Silla hopped up and trotted to the kitchen where she nosed the oven door down and open. The oven racks were completely gone, and Silla hopped in and curled tight into a ball.

            "Why the fuck are you putting your dog in the oven?"

            Castiel retrieved a treat and praised Silla. "In case of tornados. It was the only thing I could think of."

            The horrorstruck look on Dean's face softened.

            "What happens when you cook?"

            Castiel snorted. "I don't."

            Dean took a moment to really look around the place. It really was just one big room. The bathroom was divided from the rest of the space by glass bricks. While you couldn't see through them clearly, they would allow the suggestion of flesh to show through. Dean wondered if that encouraged or discouraged the detective from bringing people back here. The bed, right next to the bath area, was enormous and unmade. The rumpled duvet suggested a tempestuous night, and Dean let his mind wander. Beyond the bed, the French doors leading to a spacious back yard with a shining blue swimming pool had a large doggie door built in. The skylight above the bed probably woke the detective early. There were several pairs of running shoes by the door. Suddenly Dean wanted to see Castiel without his baggy coat. And tie. And shirt. And...

            "Dean?"

            Dean snapped out of his fantasy and turned. The detective held the front door open and waited for Dean to take the hint. 

 

___   ---   ___   ---   ___   ---   ___   ---   ___

 

 

            Back in the detective’s SUV, Dean daydreamed as they drove the green, winding roads toward the lake. His fingers, inside the jacket he had worn the night before, played with the edges of the detective’s business card. Castiel. What kind of a name was Castiel? He started to hum as he wondered, a low and insidious little melody that had been knocking at the back of his mind since last night.

            He was snapped out of his musings by the detective’s phone ringing. The man answered with his hands-free feature on the car’s console and muttered “Novak” at about the same time Dean’s phone buzzed.

            “Uh, hello?” Dean answered, keeping his voice low so the detective could carry on his own conversation in the driver’s seat.

            “Dean, Derek’s dead.”

            “Benny? Hi. Wait. Derek?” He was trying to process. “Do I know a Derek?”

            “You should. You were fucking his face last night.”

            “Nice, Benny.”

            “Just calling it as I saw it. Dean, he’s dead.”

            Dean’s breath caught in his throat. _Dead? What the hell…_

            “Dean?”

            “Was it drugs? Was he on drugs when I…?”

            “No, man. He was shot. Right through his head. He went back to the hotel with the band after you left with the cops, and…”

            Dean’s ears rang. The image of Bobby lying on the steel slab flashed in his mind. The image he would never forget. Now, he saw it morphed into the slightly round face bordered by dark hair and big, round, gray eyes enhanced with guyliner. Except now, the face was pale and slack like Bobby’s. There was a hole right in the middle of his forehead, _like Bobby’s_. Dean gagged, and thank God they had pulled up at his place, and the cop had remembered the gate code because it meant Dean could open the car door and upchuck into the grass.

            “Man, you okay? Dean?” Benny’s voice was distant and tinny from where Dean dropped the phone on the car seat.

            “I’m fine,” he lied. “Fine.”

            But then Detective Castiel Novak was up in his space with a water bottle and a firm hand on his shoulder. "I think we both just got a call about the same thing."

            Dean nodded without really listening.

            “I’ll walk you in,” the detective offered, somewhat awkwardly. “I can stay until someone gets here—“

            "--No. No, I want to go with you."

            Castiel just looked at him. "Dean, it's a crime scene."

            "I want to see it for myself."

            "No. If your brother is involved--"

            "-- He's not. This has nothing to do with him."

            The detective ran a hand over his face. "Why isn't he answering his phone? Why hasn't he been home? Why were his prints on the weapon?"

            "Was it the murder weapon?"

            Castiel paused, clearly thinking over whether he should divulge the answer to that question or not. "No. Not the same gun."

            Dean nodded. "So Sam's not involved."

            "His prints are on a gun found at a crime scene."

            "He could have handled that gun anytime. It's one of Bobby's guns, right? Could have easily been _my_ prints."

            "Stay out of it until I contact you, Dean." Castiel squinted at something on his phone.

            "Why should I stay out of it?"

            "Because," he looked up and leveled his gaze at Dean. "I've got a court order to look through your brother's phone data and a warrant for his arrest if he pops back up."

            Dean lurched to his feet and flung himself away from the cop’s vehicle. "Fuck that." He raced up his front steps and disappeared inside the house. Castiel shrugged, got back into his Trailblazer, and headed down the drive toward the exit gate. As he turned onto the main road, he caught Dean’s garage door moving in his rearview mirror.

________________________________________________________________________

 

Dean

            If that fucking cop thought Dean was going to sit tight at home while the quicksand chased Sam down, he had another think coming.

            Dean's car roared to life with the vital odors of leather and exhaust. He tapped out the rhythm to the tune playing inside his skull as he maneuvered toward Lake Austin and downtown. Heads turned as he rumbled along the boulevard, and occasionally someone recognized his arm resting on the open driver window and shouted his name or his lyrics at him through traffic. Even if it made him feel loved, it didn't erase the hole in his chest left by Bobby's death or this new death that somehow figured into the puzzle, and it didn't ease his mind about what he was going to find at Sam's.

            As he drove, Dean relaxed into the leather seat and hummed low and smooth, his mind putting words to the tune he carried with him without examining them or even letting the song hit his consciousness yet. This was how he wrote: never deliberately, always subconsciously. If he was still singing the same thing after enough time had lapsed for him to commit it to memory, he'd record it and play it for the guys. Otherwise, well, it was never meant to be a song.                              

            Duval Street was north of the UT campus, north of the hospital where he'd seen Bobby's body, north of the venue where he'd played his show. Was it only a day ago? The impala rumbled up Sam's driveway and coughed to a stop when Dean cut the engine. He'd have to check the spark plugs soon. It would be good to get some grease under his fingernails.

            The tune still hummed through his head as he used his spare key to unlock the house. The place was clean as a whistle, as both men had been raised by a Marine to be tidy to a fault. Sam didn't even have someone come in to clean like Dean did. He was just neat by nature.

            Dean looked around and noticed a few things off, though. The banana in the bowl was a little spottier than Sam liked. The mail in the tray was from a few days ago and unopened. Dean took the mail key and checked; the box wasn’t full, but it hadn’t been checked in a couple of days. Dean would be lying if he said these details didn't worry him. 

            Before he let himself get tense about it, though, he went to Sam's closet. The suitcase was there. He took it out and unzipped it. The overnight bag was there. Nothing appeared to be missing from the closet. The razor and toothbrush were in their rightful places by the bathroom sink, but the laundry hamper was full. Sam did laundry on Tuesdays and Fridays like clockwork because he didn’t like his workout clothes to sit in their own mustiness too long.

            Sam was missing.

            Just to be sure, Dean checked the drawer where Sam kept his old cellphones he saved as backups in case his Samsung gave out. They were sitting there. Dean booted each one up to see if Sam maybe left Dean a message of some kind. Nada.

            So Dean called Sam's number for the elevenhundredth time. No answer, and he couldn’t even leave a voicemail anymore because the phone was full. So with a silent, "Forgive me, Sammy," Dean dialed his brother's passcode and listened to the voicemails he had accumulated.

            There was one from the 911 Operator calling him back after he reported whatever happened at Bobby's and hung up on them.

            There were two from Dean, curt and unfriendly. Dean felt a pang of guilt for his tone.

            There was one from Detective Dickweed.

            There were two hangups.

            Three more from Dean.

            And one saved message from six months ago. From Bobby: "You idjits will both pull your heads out your asses sooner or later. Don't let your brother get you down."

            Dean hits repeat, just to hear the old man's voice once more and then makes sure to save it again.

            “Where are you, Sammy?” he whispered into the still, empty air.

 


	4. Saturday: Early afternoon

Castiel

            The second crime scene was messy. The shot, at point blank range, had gone in through the bridge of the victim's nose and splintered the back of the skull to smithereens all over the hotel room. When Castiel looked over the victim, he sent a silent thank you to the powers that be that Dean wouldn't have to ID this body, too. It wasn't exactly easy to be sure about the kid's face, but Castiel vaguely remembered the gray eyes that had scowled at him at the venue. Once so lively, they were vacant now and wouldn't close properly.

            "What a mess, right?" the coroner's assistant zipped up the black bag, after scooping some brain and skull into a Ziplock and tossing it in there with the body.

            Castiel hummed in solidarity with the guy.

            Another execution. Another link to Dean Winchester, but again, he had a solid alibi. Castiel, himself, was with Dean until he dropped him off at home a little after three a.m.

            “I put the time of death between two and three a.m.” the CA offered.

            Castiel raised a brow, “Why the full hour of wiggle room there?”

            “When we got here, the AC was set on sixty, and you could practically see your breath. Body was basically refrigerated. Sped up the cooling.”

            Castiel asked, “Then could it have been after three, three-thirty?” Could Dean have had time to get back here after Castiel dropped him off to murder this kid?

            “Not much after three. 3:10 at the latest.”

            “Anybody hear it?”

            A nearby uniformed officer chimed in, “Apparently the band got in late and made quite a bit of noise as they settled into their rooms. There were seventeen noise complaints last night, according to the manager.”

            Castiel thanked them both and headed out to speak to the manager and see if he had anything to add to this detail.

 

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

  

            Dean arrived at the hotel just as the Coroner’s van was pulling out. He snaked through the parking garage looking for a space. One problem with Baby’s wide turning radius and wide body meant those “compact” parking spots would not do. Dean cursed under his breath as he curved through the hotel’s parking garage’s third level.

            By the time he entered the lobby, there was Detective Castiel Novak talking to some guys in uniform while some others in hazmat-looking booties and gloves went over the place with little makeup brushes. The hotel manager flitted around having hysterics at the scene the police were causing in his lobby. Dean breezed past them to the elevators and went up to the 9th floor where most of the road crew and band were booked. Benny was there, and man if the manager was freaking about the lobby he must not have seen the 9th floor yet. There was police tape and more hazmat guys and uniforms and--

            “Dean.” Without turning around, Dean knew the voice. It was that detective, Douchey McCop. With his hand in his jacket pocket he fingered the guy’s card and tried to remember the name.

            “Novak,” finally came to him and the owner of the name raised one eyebrow at him. Dean felt his stance straighten just at that look.

            “You don’t need to be here, Dean.”

            “Bullshit I don’t. My crew are here. My band is here. My… Derek was killed here.” He knows his voice took a slightly hysterical edge to it there at the end, but that can’t be helped. Benny’s hand is there patting his shoulder, and it’s probably supposed to be comforting or calming or whatever, but he just needs some fucking space to process this, and the detective must see it on his face.

            “Why don’t we step in here for a moment. I have a bottle of water,” and he did have one. It was right there in his hand sweating condensation and he held it out for Dean as he ushered him into the quiet room.

            “Dean, take a sip and take a breath. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

            Pausing with the water bottle at his lips, Dean looked up at the cop. His eyes were blue. Like, so blue. _Eyes like knives_. The man’s nose was straight and long, and his hair was dark and fucked out like maybe he drove a convertible, or at least with his windows down.

            “Drink. It’s okay,” he urged, and his voice was sexy and low, like waking up late on a Sunday morning.

            Dean drank the water and remembered, too, to take a breath, and he closed his eyes and enjoyed the utter quiet of the room, the stillness. Then he heard the cop, Novak, shifting around, and he looked up to see him removing his trench coat, and it pulled his suit jacket a little off his shoulder, and there was a soft brown leather holster looking hot as fuck. It was like the guy had a laundry list of Dean’s weaknesses and ticked them off one by one. He pulled up a chair to face Dean.

            “The fact that we haven’t been able to locate Samuel Win—“

            “—Sam,” Dean breaks in. “He just goes by Sam.”

            Detective Novak produced a little notepad out of nowhere and jotted that down like it might be the key to breaking this case wide open.

            “The fact that we can’t find him is causing me to focus on him, so if there is anything you can tell me about where Sam is, it would really help things.”

            “I don’t know, man. I went by his place, and—”

            “—I know.”

            “You know?”

            “We have Samuel Winchester’s home under surveillance, Dean.”

            “Sammy’s missing.”

            “I thought he just goes by Sam?” Cas says in his low, cool way.

            “Sometimes I like to annoy my baby brother.”

            “What makes you think he’s ‘missing,’ Dean?” Castiel make airquotes with his fingers, and his eyes met Dean’s and just stuck for a few beats longer than was strictly reasonable.

_Sticky eyes_ , _like sticky knives_ , Dean’s brain supplied unhelpfully. He scratched his stubbled chin and kept from rolling his eyes at himself by taking another gulp of water. Maybe he should have had more coffee. _Definitely not firing on all cylinders._

            “Laundry,” he said reasonably.

            “What?”

            “He hasn’t done his Friday laundry and here it is: Saturday.”

            “Do you know what the link is between Bobby and Derek, Dean?”

            “Me. It’s gotta be me. They sure as hell wouldn’t have known each other.”

            “Why so sure as hell?”

            “Uh, Bobby was practically a shut-in over at the salvage yard, and Derek, well, you saw him. Why would he have gone to a salvage yard?”

            Novak writes something down. He figured it was actually a reasonable question, but there was no reason not to look into a connection between the two vics that didn’t include Dean after all. At that Cas paused, though. Why was he feeling eager about getting Dean off the hook?

            It’s true that Dean Winchester seemed guileless but that didn’t wash. He was a performer by trade, so he had to have some larceny running through his veins, just to deal with the shit fame must have thrown at him on a daily basis. Still, he had been entirely upfront since the very beginning, and he had handled himself well through a rough ten or twelve hours that no one should ever have to go through. But why was Cas’ gut rooting for this headstrong rockstar who thinks with his dick, fucks groupies backstage, and would flirt with a fencepost if it had a face? Cas had been in observation mode since the investigation started, and he had noticed quite a lot about Dean Winchester.

            In the spirit of observation, he watched Dean’s face as they spoke, and Cas had to force himself to look away and break that train of thought about Dean. _He’s most likely not the perp, not involved, and doesn’t deserve my judgment_ , Cas thought.

            Dean, for his part, remained silent, sipping at the water and staring into space, clearly lost in his own thoughts, and Castiel was drawn right back into staring.

            Dean had about a thousand freckles on his face, layers of them that looked like a healthy tan in some places and like splashed paint in other places. His nose must have been broken at some point because the perfect symmetry of his face was off kilter just in the slightest bit at the bridge. Cas imagined he played football when he was young. Or maybe he was a fighter. His hands are nice, solid, calloused from playing guitar. The knuckles were scarred up a little, but not more than an adult man’s who works with his hands would be. So Dean did something handy. Mechanical, maybe. But his nails were neatly trimmed, probably manicured, and perfectly clean, so he either liked to take care of himself, or someone looked after his image pretty closely. He had a day’s growth of stubble on his face, but the hair was somewhat fine and merely cast a shadow over his perfectly chiseled jaw. This was a man Cas would buy a drink for in a bar. This was a man Cas would want, under other circumstances, to know. And yet the image of his first impression loomed large in his mind. With two mouths already on him, Dean invited Cas, a perfect stranger, to join in.

             Oh the things he could do to Dean Winchester if he weren’t what he was. It was a shame really, that someone who looked so good was so morally dissipated and disgusting. Cas stopped himself before he openly sneered at Dean. Running a hand through his hair he reviewed his notes for a moment before tucking the notebook back into a pocket. It was still a good idea to check into Derek’s hobbies. If he was into cars, he could have met Bobby Singer legitimately at the salvage yard, and that would take this investigation in another direction.

             “You done, detective?”

            Startled out of his thoughts, Castiel made eye contact with Dean again. “Done?”

            “I thought you were going to question me some more, or something?”

            “If you were in Sam’s shoes, where would you be right now?”

            Dean looked at his phone, and Cas realized he was checking the time. “Not home. Not at work. The gym, maybe.”

            Castiel decided to push a bit. “Why wasn’t he at your big show last night?”

            Dean considered momentarily before answering. “We fought a few months back. He might have been just pissed enough to leave town for the weekend once my schedule was released for these dates, but he’s not on a trip. He’s missing.”

            “What did you fight about?”

            Dean scowled in memory, “He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.”

            “Meaning?”

            With a sigh, Dean launched into his tale. “We’ve always looked out for each other, but somewhere along the way he turned into a mother hen over my drinking. Doesn’t even try to see it from my point of view. It’s mild compared to what I could be doing, only Sam thinks I’m doing that, too. I’m not.”

            “He accused you of using drugs.”

            “I’m not.”

            “Dean, last night at the venue, I smelled—“

            “—Grass, yeah, I know. The guys smoke. I don’t. It makes me itchy.”

            “Sam isn’t aware of your allergy?”

            Dean snorted, whether at calling his aversion to cannabis an allergy or at something else, Cas wasn’t certain. “Sam thinks one poison is as bad as another. Sam thinks I’m swimming in pills out here. It’s not like that. I swear.”

            Despite the fact that he has no concrete reason to trust Dean’s word, Cas finds himself nodding along. His eyes are clear and clean looking. He’s not fidgeting or scratching or sniffing. He shows no signs of being on drugs.

            “But Bobby Singer is dead. You’ve tried calling your brother, and he isn’t answering. You haven’t left a voicemail, but the news has been reported on television and in the papers. He must know by now.”

            “What are you saying, Detective?”

            “I’m not saying anything, Dean. I’m just asking questions. Why didn’t you leave a voicemail?”

            Dean sighs and tosses the empty water bottle into the trashcan behind the cop. “The voicemail box was full.”

            The detective wrote something down. And then a knock at the door broke up the meeting.

            A uniformed officer stuck his head in the room and said, “Castiel, the crew is done here. Do you want to give the manager the go-ahead to clean up?”

            “Not yet. Let me look around one more time. I’ll talk to the manager again on my way out.”

            The officer nodded and closed the door, but the detective stood up anyway. “What are your plans, Dean?”

            “We don’t head to Houston until next weekend. It’s a mini-break in the tour.” Dean stood up, too, and he felt himself shake a little. Maybe he was more affected by everything than he originally thought.

            “That might not be possible if the case still looks anything like this by the end of the week. Do I need to tell you that when your brother contacts you I need to know about it, and you need to tell him to get himself downtown to answer some questions?”

            Dean frowned but pulled the business card out of his pocket. Castiel Novak. What a weird name. “I’ve got your card, Detective. If Sam wasn’t missing, I’d give him your message.”

            “It’s only been fourteen hours since his 911 call. When you hear from him, tell him to do the right thing.” Castiel opened the door and stepped into the chaotic ninth floor hallway.

            “You’re pretty sure he’s going to contact me.”

            “Yes, I am,” the detective replied and then he was gone and Benny was there, and Dean knew what he needed.

            “Benny, I need to borrow your little hibachi and pick up some beers. Can we head to your place?” In addition to playing bass in Dean’s band, Benny owned a craft brewery.

            Benny grinned despite the fact that Dean looked like he was barely holding his eyes open. “You had me at beers, brother. Maybe you can get a nap in the hammock out back, too.”


	5. Saturday: dusk

            The day warmed up a bit muggy as it drew on, and after driving around in it for hours, taking Dean to breakfast, hitting the crime scene, and then spending some time riding his desk, Castiel wanted nothing more than a shower and a beer. Mere blocks from home, though, his phone pinged with a message from Hannah: the warrant had come through on Samuel Winchester's phone, and Castiel could access the data. Where they found a judge to sign it on a Saturday evening was a mystery, but at least he didn’t have to lose a day on the investigation. He sighed and pushed onward to see Silla and make a sandwich before turning around and heading back to work.

            He hadn't expected to see Dean's classic '67 Chevy parked on his street, and he was especially surprised when he entered the back gate that led to his carriage house because Dean Winchester himself lounged by his pool with a little hibachi grill set up beside him with roasting onions wafting a mouth watering aroma into the air.

            Silla rose from where she rested at Dean's feet when she heard Cas coming and wagged her tail calmly. 

            "Oh good, now I can put the burgers on."

            Castiel stood stiffly by the gate with his hand in Silla's fur. He had no idea how to proceed, but his stomach growled. Silla lost interest in him as Dean opened a little green cooler and took out some burgers. She sat serenely next to Dean and watched every single move his fingers made as he laid the meat inside of perfectly sized onion slices on the grill.

            "You're trespassing."

            "You're welcome."

            "Dean, what are you doing?"

            "Making dinner. We need to talk, Casti-el -- Cas."

            "Dean, I'm only here to feed her, and I'm going back to the station. I don't have time for-"

            "--My brother's missing."

            "I know."

            "No, he's not hiding or something. He's missing. Something's wrong. You got access to his phone yet?"

            "Why?"

            Dean nodded and raked the charcoal a little to turn up the heat.

            "Dean, stop seducing my dog with your beef and go home."

            Dean stopped and looked at Silla and looked at Cas and threw his head back and laughed.

            After a moment, Cas seemed to realize what he had said and allowed himself a grimace.

           "Come on, man," Dean coaxed. "Take off that stupid coat and eat with us." He ruffled Silla's ear a bit and they both looked at Cas eagerly as he vacillated by the gate.

            "Fine," he relented and shrugged his coat off. It really had warmed up over the course of the day, but he was so used to wearing the trench coat that it rarely occurred to him to take it off unless he was home. Well, he was home. And there was Dean Winchester in black jeans and a gray tee-shirt with a charming grin despite the trauma of the past twenty hours, the lack of sleep, and the worry he must be carrying. Cas reminded himself that Dean is a performer, after all, and he unknotted his tie with his shoulders squared. He would not be played by this man.

            "Beer?" Dean offered, gesturing toward his little avocado green cooler.

            "I'm still on the clock."

            "It's after seven pm, Detective. When do they let you relax?"

            "Not while a murder with two kills under his belt and no leads is still on the loose in my city, Dean."

            The mirth dropped instantly from Dean's face. "I know," he said. "It's my city, too. They were my family."    

            Castiel dropped his shoulders but jumped on the presumptuousness of calling both victims 'family' as he took the lounge chair next to Silla. "Derek was family now?" he scoffed. "Earlier you couldn't remember his name."           

            Dean produced a spatula and poked at the burgers. "Fine. Not family then, but connected. They had me in common, and what else, Dick?"

            "Dick?"

            "Slang for detective, right?"

            "Sixty years ago, maybe."

            Dean shrugged. “I like old movies.”

            "Don't call me Dick," Castiel stated in an unequivocal tone.

            "Fine," Dean relented. "Don't be one. What connects your two victims, Detective?"

            Castiel sighed and watched the beer bottle in Dean's hand drip condensation onto his shirt as he lifted it by the neck to his lips.

            Castiel cleared his throat and looked away. "They, uh, style of murder clearly links them. Same caliber, same gun. Different trajectories."

            "What does that mean? The, uh, trajectories?"

            "It's the angle of the--"

            "Jesus, I know what the word means. What about them?"

            Castiel looked up and nodded his head. "Well, Singer was on the floor when he was shot, the killer standing over him. Lyles was lying down, maybe startles between lying and rising to a sitting position, and the shot went through his nose."

            Dean momentarily closed his eyes. The sun was starting its slow descent toward twilight as he flipped the burgers and tried not to remember the was Derek Lyles had smiled up at him, batted his lashes, sucked him off...

            "Dean," Castiel spoke low, as if talking to a spooked animal. "They may be linked to you, but you can't blame yourself."

            "Why not?"

            "Well, is there something you're not telling me about your involvement in the murders or in some shady business that could lead to murder?"

            Dean met Castiel's eyes. "No, man. If I had this shit figured out, I swear I'd tell you."

            "Is that why you came here? To tell me something?"

            Dean scraped the burgers off the grill and put them onto paper plates. Silla's tail beat a tattoo against Cas' chair leg and he scratched her neck. 

            "Can she have one of these?" he asked Cas.

            "Without the onion."

            There were buns and mustard and potato chips, which Dean put ON his burger and Cas put on the side.

            "I came here because Sam's missing. And if you've got his phone records, I want to help."

            "It's not your job to help," Cas said gently before saluting the chef with his burger and pulling it to his face. After a big bite, he groaned in good-natured delight, and Dean watched the man's face intently. It was a good face, even tired around the eyes and pudged-out in the cheeks as he chewed. The slightly too-long hair that curled around his ears and stuck straight up on the crown of his head was ever-so-lightly peppering around the temples. His five o'clock shadow was more seven o'clock stubble, and his shirt had an ink stain on the sleeve. Still, he was undeniably handsome with a sexy aura surrounding him and his easy grace and steadiness. Dean liked.

            "It's my job as a concerned citizen to cooperate," Dean mumbled around his own mouthful of food.

            "You did. You are. You're grieving, Dean. You need to be at home for that."

            "Which is why I don't want to be alone. I'm grieving Bobby and worried about Sam and freaked out over Derek, and the only person I could possibly hide away with to cry into my ice cream about all of this is out of town on business for me until tomorrow."

            "So you came here with burgers so Silla would let you in the gate to cry into my ice cream?"

            "Nah, man. She let me in the gate without a bribe. We bonded when you brought me by this morning."

            "You bonded?" Cas snorted.

            "We're good buddies now, aren't we, girl? Yes, we are."

            "She's licking your face because you literally handed her a quarter pound of meat on a paper plate."

            Dean grinned at him again, and went back to eating.

            Castiel finished his food startlingly fast and stepped inside his house to change into fresh clothes, even if he didn't take the time to shower. It was after seven on a Saturday evening, so he didn't bother with a suit again, instead opting for gray slacks and a royal blue button down. He might go for a drink at the bar at Jeffrey’s across from the drug store if he left his desk before they shut at two tonight. He walked back outside, checking his personal email on his phone to see if Claire had said anything about her report card. The evening was feeling fresher in the gloaming than it had in the balmy afternoon, and Dean had his little cooker packed up to go.          

            "How is that not too hot for the box?"

            Dean looked at the Hibachi and shrugged, "I dumped the coals in the pool."     

            Castiel looked horrified, "Dean, it's not my pool. It belongs to the main house. I hardly ever even swim in it."

            Dean scrunched up his face. "That. Is a damn shame. And lighten up. I'm joking. I'm not a novice at this cooking-out thing. I dumped the coals in my bucket of sand and rinsed the grill in water to cool it. I dumped the water in the mulch under the tree. You're good."

            Cas visibly relaxed and held the gate open for Dean while Silla sat by and moped as her new best friend left.

            Out on the street, Castiel watched Dean stow his stuff in his Impala's massive trunk while the streetlights flickered to life. "So, what's next on the agenda?" Dean asked.        

            "I'm heading back to work."

            "Shotgun.”

            "No, Dean. Go home. Keep yourself available, but keep your nose out of my investigation."

            Dean sighed and leaned his hip against the shiny black door of his car. "Just tell me this. Any leads on Sam?"

            "I know you're worried about your brother, but Sam hasn't even been ‘ _missing’_  for twenty-four hours." He had the nerve to finger the air quotes around the word "missing."  

            Dean almost retorted, but he held back, tongued the inside of his cheek, and crossed his arms over his chest.

            Castiel read his body language, and turned on his heel toward his Trailblazer. "Go home, Dean. Stay there."

            With that, both men got into their vehicles and threaded their ways through the Saturday evening traffic.

            Dean couldn't sleep, even though he was running on fumes. Yeah, he had dozed a bit in the late afternoon sun in the detective's yard, but he hadn't really slept since the doorbell woke him up. Remembering that made him remember the dream he had awakened from, and damn was that better than the waking nightmares he experienced every time he closed his eyes since then. The dream had been of piercing eyes and a wet hot mouth, but the tireder he got the only thing he was having visions of was Bobby's dead face. Yeah he had imagined Derek's face, too, with his nose blown off, but since he hadn't actually _seen_ it, the image was fleeting. He thanked the powers that be for that fact.

            It was no surprise that as soon as he kicked off his boots and fell onto his sofa, his eyes closed and he drifted. It was only nine-ish, but Dean was bone tired. Still, he jittered and shifted and didn't fall asleep fully. After a while he tried going to bed, but that was even worse. He got up and poured three fingers of scotch. After two of those, he finally fell into fitful dreams in his favorite chair.

            Meanwhile, Castiel was at his desk downtown. His eyes blurred as he squinted at his screen. Samuel Winchester liked taking pictures with his phone. As far as this type of surveillance went, though, it was pretty tame. There wasn't a single dick pic in the bunch, and there were relatively few selfies. Sam had hair approaching his shoulders and deep dimples in his cheeks. One thing was certain: these brothers had hit the genetic lottery.

            For a while Castiel was disappointed. There was nothing there. But on his third pass through, once he had printed every photo and was going through them with a magnifying glass, his breath caught in his throat and he coughed. He looked again.

            "Bingo."


	6. Saturday night, midnight to Sunday morning

            Castiel cropped the photos he wanted to ask Dean about and looked at his watch. It was just hitting midnight. Too late to go and question Dean, but not too late for a much needed drink. He drove toward home with the folder of pictures under his arm and handed his Trailblazer off to the valet at Jeffrey's. The restaurant inside was sparsely populated, but the bar had a few familiar faces. Especially the bartender, Balthazar.

            "Haven't seen you in a while, darling. Your usual?"

            Castiel smiled tiredly at his sometime-paramour and nodded. "It's been a long day."

            "I read about it in the paper. Rumor has it Dean Winchester's people are working overtime to keep the journalists away from him right now."

            Castiel merely nodded and sipped his rusty nail on the rocks. Balthazar made the best ones in the city.

            "No tea to spill on this one, Cassie?"

            "Sorry, Bal."

            Balthazar pouted playfully as he stirred someone else's cocktail. "At least tell me what he really really looks like. Without airbrushing. Does he smell like leather and sex?"

            "You too? Claire has a crush on him as well."

            "I have more things in common with thirteen year old girls than I let on."

            "I'm preparing myself for a visceral reaction when she finds out about the case and starts asking me these questions."

            "Are you going to answer?"

            Castiel sipped his drink equanimously. "His eyes are the shade of the trees in March when they first bud."

            "Ohhh! Someone else has a crush!"

            "Hardly."

            Balthazar's eyes sparkled. "Tell me about his tattoos."

            Luckily for Castiel, the lighting at the mahogany bar was dim, so he counted on Balthazar missing the way his face heated up. However, he made the error of looking away as he blushed.

            "Oh God, Cassie. You've really got it bad."

            "I do not, Balthazar. The man is a morally dissipated overgrown child who uses people as he pleases."

            Balthazar left to deliver some drinks and came back frowning. "Where did that assessment come from?"

            "The first moment I saw him he was fucking some groupie's face backstage."

            "You've seen his cock?" The last word was uttered in a whisper. "Cassie, is it pierced? Is it tattooed?"

            "Stop it."

            "These are legitimate questions the public needs to know. Another?"

            Castiel nodded his desire for another drink and questioned his sanity in coming here where he had known on some level exactly how Balthazar would behave.

            Eventually Castiel shut the place down and nursed his last drink while Balthazar closed the register and swept under the barstools.

            "I'd invite myself over to your place, but you look fucking awful."

            Castiel raised a brow at that. "Thanks, I'm just tired."

            "Let's get you home to sleep. Your car will still be here tomorrow."

            Castiel surprised himself by swaying a little when first getting to his feet. Balthazar walked him out and stopped when Castiel went to the curb instead of to Bal's Fiat. "Let me drive you home, Cassie."

            "It's literally two blocks. It's a beautiful March evening. I'm good.

            "Suit yourself." But Balthazar, being a good friend, kept his eye on Cas until he had crossed the street.

___---___---___---___---___---___---

            On Sunday Dean woke up in his chair around noon with a splitting headache, a stiff back, needing coffee, and wanting food. Charlie would be back from Houston today, so the first thing he did was text her to see where she was.

            "I'm right here, you weirdo," came her voice from the dining table to his right. "King sized memory foam, and you sleep in that old chair. I swear, Winchester, sometimes I wonder if you'd even wear clean clothes if I didn't do your laundry."

            "I think we both know the answer to that." Dean stretched, and his back popped about a million times as he unfurled himself from the chair.

            "Bad night?" Charlie asked, handing him a cup of coffee. She was an angel. A goddamned angel.    

            "The worst.”

            "Sorry I wasn't here. But I got the paperwork from the funeral home, and I'm working on the funeral."

            "You shouldn't have to do that, Charlie."

             "Neither should you. But with Sam not here, I'm sure as heck not making you do it on your own."

            Dean's phone pinged, and he reached for it on the side table by his coffee.

            Charlie said, "It's been pinging for the past hour. I thought it would wake you up, so I’ve been sitting here waiting. Who's Novak?"

            "You peeked.”

            “Maybe.”

            “He’s the detective working Bobby's murder.” Then more to himself, “What's he want, now?"

            "He wants to ask you some questions. I recommend inviting him here," she said, "because the more we can keep you out of police stations the better."

            "It's just questions."

            "Yeah, and a pic of you on the courthouse steps last November is just a meme."

            Dean took her point and drained his coffee cup as he scrolled through his texts. Still nothing from Sam.

            He read the messages from the detective:

**\-- > Dean, this is Detective Novak. I need to speak to you at your convenience today. **

**\-- > Please let me know what time you are available to speak.**      

            Complete sentences. "Detective Novak." The guy was a regular Sergeant Joe Friday type. Dean imagined he was wearing another suit today with his tie knotted tight at his throat and his creases crisp and tidy. He looked down at himself and decided it was a good time for a hot shower. He drained his coffee cup and wandered toward his bedroom shouting, "Order me some breakfast tacos, Charles!"

            "Will-do, Chief," she hollered back. It was a good relationship. He paid her a king's ransom, and when he didn't want to deal with the world, she dealt with it for him without complaint.

            In the shower, Dean turned on all the jets and hummed the tune that had been in his head since yesterday. He lathered up and played with the melody. He covered over the black and red ink on his stomach with white suds and muttered the words in the back of his mind.

 

_I met a dick the other day_

_With eyes like knives_

_Slithers beneath my skin when I'm asleep._  


_I told this dick with poison lips_

_And eyes like knives_

_Come slither on my skin and let me keep..._

 

            The tune was simple and low in a minor key. The words were place fillers, mostly. They always were at this point. His stomach growled as he rinsed it off, and Dean hit the taps off. He toweled his head and shoulders before wrapping it around his waist and stomping wetly onto the fuzzy moss rug.

            He didn't want to get dressed right away, so he stepped through his French doors onto his patio with the towel riding low on his hips and checked his hummingbird feeder, which Charlie had set out for him, since he had been on the road when March rolled in. It would need more syrup today. The breeze helped dry him off, and Dean encouraged it by raising his arms up over his head and stretching luxuriously with a wide yawn. He felt like he could sleep for another day, but he needed to get dressed and get Novak's questions out of the way.

            Humming once more, he went back inside and found a clean pair of jeans and a tee-shirt to eat his breakfast in. With Charlie home and fixing his world, it would be a lazy Sunday, after all. 

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

 

            Dean ate his tacos with a fuckton of salsa at the table with Charlie but refused to look at caskets on the internet with her. He was quiet while she talked about funeral plans, but when he finished his food and felt refreshed and headache-free, Dean pushed his plate away and scrubbed a hand down his face. Somehow Charlie being here, discussing the funeral details in her ineffable manner cemented the truth for Dean. Bobby was really gone.

            “We still got that reclaimed hardwood in the garage?” he asked, apropos of nothing.

            “Don’t you go in the garage, like daily?” Charlie volleyed back.

            “I mean, I don’t look around in there.”

            “Yeah. It’s like, two barn doors and a barn wall, remember? You wanted to panel this room.”

            Dean pushed back from the table and went out to the work shed to see if his tools were in place. He bought things when he needed them, but he loaned them out when he didn’t, so he was never really sure what tools he had. His mitre saw was in place and clean. He flipped it on and off again to hear it buzz, and then he took off toward the garage to get the wood. If that was the tool, he had, that was the tool he’d use.

 

 

            When the doorbell rang, Dean didn’t have a chance of hearing it with the tools buzzing and grinding away on top of the metal playlist he had on for ‘atmosphere,’ so Charlie answered the door. Detective Novak wore aviators and a trench coat, which was a bit much for March, but she conceded in her mind that there _was_ a stiff breeze coming in off the lake.

            “You must be Miss Bradbury.” He offered his hand, “Detective Novak.”

            “Please, call me Charlie. Miss Bradbury was my father.”

            Castiel laughed dutifully at the old joke and followed when she ushered him inside.

            “Can I get you something to drink?” she offered.

            Castiel politely declined and looked out the back windows toward the shed whence emanated the distinctive sounds of woodworking and Iron Maiden.

            “Dean’s puttering,” Charlie offered. “You may as well interrupt him, but he’s in kind of a mood.”

            Castiel let himself out and followed the noise to the shed. When his shadow encroached on the doorway and spread across Dean’s work, the saw stopped. Dean lifted his safely goggles and pulled one glove off with his teeth so he could pause the playlist.

            His tee-shirt was soaked through and speckled with sawdust. The little flakes of wood also clung to Dean’s hair, arms, and lips.

            “Is that a—“

            “--coffin. Yeah.”

            “For Robert Singer.”

            “Yeah.” Dean put three nails between his lips and lifted his hammer to place the fresh cut board in its spot.

            “I’ve got some pictures to ask you about, Dean.”

_Bang bang bang bang bang._

            He set his hammer down and whipped his second glove off before drawing a shop rag from his pocket and wiping his fingers. Then he held out his hand abruptly, silently demanding the photos, and everything in Dean’s demeanor told the detective that he was about to be dismissed just as abruptly.

            Without comment, Castiel put the small stack of carefully selected and cropped photos in Dean’s hand and watched his face. At first it was shuttered, and then it shattered. Dean’s lips parted, his brows knit together, and he flipped through the pictures more than once before looking up and meeting Castiel’s eyes. The man Detective Novak saw in that moment was raw and stripped and utterly astounded.

            “Tell me what I’m seeing in these pictures, please, Dean.”

            Dean looked somewhat helplessly back at the hand of photos splayed like playing cards in his tenuous grip.

            “That’s Bobby,” Dean supplies in a breathy voice, “at the Citywide Garage Sale at Palmer Auditorium. It must have been the most recent one, when I was out of town, because I would have remembered this.”

            “What’s memorable about it?”

            “That gun—in the picture—that’s the Colt. One of ‘em, anyway.”

            “So it’s an important gun.”

            “Collectible like the first issue of a comic book or an autographed _White Album_. Bobby has wanted one of those for his collection for years. Decades, even. The first thing I did when I got money was to try to track one down for him. There was only one in all of Texas, right here in Austin, but the owner wouldn’t sell, not for any price.” Dean traced the long barrel of the antique revolver with his fingertip.

            Castiel didn’t need to jot this in his notebook. So far Dean’s info jibed with his own day’s research.

            “And what’s in the background of that photo of the Colt, Dean?”

            “That’s… the twi-- Derek. But, I mean. He’s not looking at the Colt, he’s looking down. He’s taking a picture, too.”

            Neither Dean's reactions nor his answers were suspicious in the least, and Castiel was more certain than ever that Dean knew nothing about the crimes. Of course, there were some things in the photos that Dean couldn’t see. He couldn’t see that there was yet another person of interest in Sam’s photo who was taking pictures of something at the Citywide Garage Sale that day, and he couldn’t see the reflection Castiel had trimmed from the gun’s glass case. He had decided to ask Dean about the former and save the latter for his facial recognition expert. He pulled one more photograph from his breast pocket.

            “Do you recognize this man, Dean?” In the photo, there was Derek again, and now Dean could see what he was taking picture of: vinyl records. He was at a collectors’ booth, and right behind him stood the collector. A former DJ from KUTX who had been semi-famous for his weekly two-hour round-up show of alt-pop hits from near and far— a mix of local acts and international independent labels, mostly from UK, but also Sweden, Canada, and even more exotic locales.

            With a shrug, Dean answered, “That’s Gabriel Milton.”

 


	7. Sunday afternoon

            “Gabriel Milton gave you your first air time on radio.”

            “Congratulations, you found my Wikipedia page.”

            As it happened, Castiel did read that tidbit on Dean’s Wikipedia page, but it had sparked a memory for him. He had been a listener of Gabriel Milton’s show a little over a decade ago, when he was a grad student at UT, when little Claire was cutting teeth, when he counted himself lucky on days he had more than one meal. He had checked the bottom “References” portion of the Wiki page and found a link to an audio file. Listening curiously, Cas had distinctly remembered hearing this local no-name artist playing live, on-air, in studio for Milton. The voice was hauntingly memorable: rough on the hard notes and sweet on the soft notes, and even the lyric seemed familiar to Castiel. Was that refrain truly something he recalled after all this time, or was it simply so beautiful he longed to remember it?

            “Dean—“

            “—No. You know what? I asked you yesterday to let me in on this, and you blew me off. You came back, and I cooperated today, and today Sammy’s still missing, Bobby’s still dead, and I’m still waiting for _you_ to give _me_ something.”

            “What do you want, Dean?”

            Dean’s green eyes stared cold and hard into Castiel’s blue eyes for half a minute at least, and then, so quick Castiel almost thought he imagined it, Dean’s glance darted to his mouth and back up again. Dean licked his lips unconsciously and turned, huffing out a sigh. He switched off his machinery and stomped out of the shed.

            In the sunlight, Dean kicked off his boots and started unbuttoning his jeans. Castiel trailed behind him but stopped short when Dean slithered out of his jeans and left them on the fence post at the pool gate. He shed his tee-shirt on the wrought iron table and, clad only in boxer briefs Dean pulled the chain on the outdoor shower by the swimming pool. Castiel stood, mouth ajar and eyes transfixed at the pool gate as Dean rinsed the sawdust out of his hair. In the sunlight, his tattoos were vibrant. The colors swirled over his torso and down his arms. They disappeared down his shorts and up the back of his neck into the base of his hairline. His right thigh and left calf were also colored and swirled. Castiel was able to make out some kind of warrior with a sword with various ethereal creatures challenging him, but the story was unclear. He wanted time and proximity to study the flow of the design and suss out its meaning.

            Castiel felt a sweat prickle across his chest, and for once his trench coat felt less like a comfort and more like a hindrance.

            Dean shut the shower off and dove right into the deep end of the pool. For a moment, he stayed submerged, and Castiel watched his body move under the surface. He wondered how cool the water was. Maybe the pool was heated. When Dean’s head and shoulders emerged, Dean shook himself like a dog and then swiped his hair back from his forehead. He glanced at Castiel before making a couple of laps.

            Finally, Charlie appeared from the patio door with a pitcher of tea and a big white towel. She motioned for Castiel to sit, set the towel at the poolside, and poured two glasses of tea.

            “Told you he was in a mood,” she muttered low, so Dean wouldn’t hear. “You might as well take your coat off, Detective. He usually does about forty laps.”

            Castiel raised his eyebrows into an impressed expression and dis as bid. With the coat off, he decided to lose his suit jacked as well, and he sat rolling up his cuffs and loosening his tie while Dean swam. He didn’t really have more questions for Dean, and he should go ahead and leave; but he wanted to enjoy the tea and a nice sunshine for a few minutes anyway. At least that’s what he told himself.

 

            Taking a thirty second breather while holding onto the pool’s edge, Dean chanced a look at Novak with his fucking coat off and his forearms bared to the sun. “Come on in, Cas. Water’s nice.”

            Castiel had put his sunglasses back on, but Dean could tell he was looking. He brought his tea glass to his lips and sipped without answering. Dean shrugged and did ten more.

            When Dean finally hoisted himself out of the water, his wet boxer briefs left nothing to the imagination. Dean dried his face and head off first before wrapping the towel around his hips and then stepping out of the soaked cotton drawers. He ambled in his bow-legged fashion over to the table and sat across from Castiel, reaching for his glass of tea.

            Castiel cleared his throat and picked up where he had left off. “So, Sam’s photos link Derek and Bobby, even if it’s a tenuous link. Can you tell me why their coincidental presence at Palmer Event Center two weeks ago got them killed?”

            “Talk to Milton. Hell, surveil him. He’ll be your next victim.”

            The thought had already occurred to Castiel, but based on what the info he had, he’d ruled it out as unlikely. Still, he looked at his watch. Milton was due downtown to answer some questions at two o’clock. Uniforms were already watching his back. “You watch too many procedural cop shows, Dean.”

            Dean smirked at the detective’s comeback. “What are you doing tonight, Cas?” he asked, leaning forward, voice pitched low. Cas was very aware that Dean was sitting there naked except for a towel, and Dean was very aware of the sturdy looking torso wrapped tight by the brown leather holster disappearing under the detective’s strong arms.

            Cas leaned forward, mirroring Dean’s body and pitch. “I’m having dinner with my daughter at my ex’s house at six,” he replied as he rose from the table and draped his coats over his arm. “Thanks for the tea.”

 

            Castiel and Claire had a standing dinner date on Sunday nights. An avid Food TV fan, she loved cooking new things, and Castiel was her brave guinea pig. It also gave Amelia, Castiel’s college mistake, the night out with her friends. Claire was almost old enough to balk at a babysitter while her mom was out for the evening, and Castiel hoped each week that it wouldn’t come up. He treasured his weekly visits with his daughter, no matter what she forced him to eat.

            Castiel drove toward downtown, interested to see how the meeting with Milton would go, but even more interested to see if his facial rec guy had gotten a match on the reflection. Cas was willing to lay fifty to two-fifty that was his shooter. Before he hit 12th Street, his phone rang.

            “Novak.”

_Milton’s here._

            “Five minutes.”

            He was good on his ETA and turned heads when he glided through the bullpen without his suit jacket on, having left the trench in the car. Castiel Novak never showed his forearms with his sleeves rolled up, never dressed down at work. A female detective wolf-whistled low enough that most of the others couldn’t tell where it had come from. Cas had that effect.

            Oblivious, he grabbed the file folder from his desk where he deposited his jacket, and strode to holding room one. There sat Gabriel Milton with a Styrofoam cup of weak looking coffee and a grin on his face.

            “You must be the big bad Detective Novak!” he effused.

            Cas tilted his head, “Why big and bad?”

            “Oh, the way everyone around here talks about you, I was imagining you’d be a cross between Godzilla and Stephen Hawking.”

            Bemused by the visual, Castiel took a chair and slid the folder of pictures over to Milton.”

            “Mr. Milton, please take a careful look at these photos and tell me what you see, if you see anything strange, what you remember about them, if anything.”

            “Well, that’s not ominous,” he responded, opening the folder.

            “Don’t know this guy,” he said, stopping on a photo of Sam Winchester, “but boy would I like to.” He winked conspiratorially at Cas before focusing again on the selfie. “I remember him. He stopped at my booth and bought a pristine vintage Led Zeppelin album without batting an eye at the price tag.” Under his breath, he continued, “Wouldn’t mind getting my tongue lost in those dimples.”

            Castiel waited patiently without comment as Gabriel Milton finally set the photo of Sam Winchester aside and picked up and put down the picture of Bobby Singer without uttering a peep. Next he came to the photo of Derek Lyles taking a picture of Gabriel’s records.

            “Yeah. That’s Derek. Comes to my booth every month taking pictures of my autographed vinyl so he can ‘authenticate’ it on the web before he pays. Annoying little shit, but what can you do? Spends a lot of money with me.”

            “So you see him regularly.”

            “Just about every GS.”

            “GS?”

            “C. dub G. S. City Wide Garage Sale,” Gabriel explained.

            “Yes, I see. What about the other pictures?”

            “No idea, man. Never seen these guys.”

            Castiel was not disappointed but relieved. Gabriel had just doubled his odds on _not_ being the next victim. His phone pinged, and Castiel took his bare arms off the table to check it. It was Claire texting:

**- >Can you bring some crème fraîche please?**

            Castiel had no idea what that was but quickly replied in the affirmative. It was something Whole Foods would have, right?

            He finished up with Gabriel in short order after that, informed the former DJ that his surveillance team would be sticking to him for the time being (because no matter how certain Cas was that Milton was not destined to be a victim, he wasn’t willing to gamble with human life), and grabbed his jacket once again. The aroma from Stubb’s Bar-B-Q hit him hard in the parking lot, and Castiel’s stomach started trying to eat itself. It was then that he realized he hadn’t eaten since his egg white omelet and grapefruit that he had made after his run that morning. Sundays were always a craps shoot like that: he wanted so badly to be hungry for Claire’s masterpiece that he showed up simply ravenous. On days when her offered selection was awful, he wolfed it down anyway, boosting her ego. He was sure that by now she was convinced of her own Gordon Ramsay status.

            Whole Foods was always a clusterfuck on a Sunday afternoon. Castiel ended up parking in the garage instead of the parking lot and pulled his suit jacket back on in the shade to hide his weapon.

            It turned out that crème fraîche was just fancy sour cream.

            “It’s not sour at all,” corrected the may-I-help-you person when he suggested this same idea to her.

            “Whatever,” he shrugged and wheeled his cart toward the sour cream section of the refrigerators.

            He also picked up his usual supplies: some cereal, dog food, milk, eggs, cheese, bread, butter, mustard, etc. He also grabbed a couple of Armadillo Hibiscus Zinger Botanical Ales to enjoy in his backyard before heading over to Amelia’s place. Satisfied with everything except the outrageous price tag for his meager bags of food, Castiel paid and trudged with it back to the garage.

            The short drive home up Lamar, over 12th, and back to Enfield was uneventful, but when he pulled his Trailblazer onto West Lynn and saw the ’67 Chevy sitting in his usual parking space Castiel sighed. “What now?”

            With his two bags of groceries and the late afternoon heat, Castiel left his trench in the car. As soon as he got to his gate, there was Silla wagging her tail at him.

            “Some guard dog you are,” he groused. In his periphery, Castiel saw Dean coming toward him and his shoulders tensed.

            “Woah. I’m just helping you with the bags so you can get in your door.” Dean soothed in a voice more suitable to a spooked animal than to a man.

            “Dean, why are you here? Again?”

            Castiel handed off his bags and dug out his key. When he went inside, Dean stayed at the doorway and handed the bags over. Silla nosed into the bag that held her food until Cas snapped his fingers loudly and she trotted over to her bed by the French doors. Both Dean and the dog looked heartbroken, and Castiel sighed again. “Give me strength,” he mumbled. Then louder, “Stop pouting, both of you. Dean, come in.”

            The first thing Castiel did was open his Ale and pour the 40-ounce can into two iced tea glasses. He offered one to Dean, who took it with a small smile and a salute. They both drank deeply. It was cold and refreshing, but Dean grimaced at the herbal undertones. It tasted like drinking a bucket of wildflowers.

            “The fuck?”

            Cas smirked. “It’s an herbal ale.”

            “It’s… I guess it’s an acquired taste? I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s nice. Thank you,” Dean finally supplied.

            “You’re welcome.” Castiel loosened his tie until the knot was free and pulled it from his collar with one hand. He quickly poured some dog food into Silla’s dish and then began unbuttoning his shirt and walking toward his closet at the same time. “Why are you here, Dean?” he called. He stood just inside the walk-in and pulled a button-down and a pair of jeans off a shelf. He quickly doffed his holster and work shirt before turning to his dresser to shut the gun into its case. He pulled the shirt on, and it was too quick.

            He was backlit, and it was too quick, and he was too fast with the buttons-- but dear _God_. Dean’s hands shook with wanting to touch the man.

            Dean may not be a detective, but he understood a few things about Castiel Novak. First of all, the man did the opposite of run away screaming when Dean lost his jeans by the pool. A straight guy would have got all uncomfortable and left. Secondly, --

            Castiel stepped out of his slacks, and Dean forgot his second point altogether. The guy wore navy blue briefs, and not only did he have an ass you could bounce a quarter off, his thighs looked like fiberglass models of what thighs were meant to look like. But his claves… those were unreal, thick and round and cut from burnished marble. When Castiel stepped into his jeans, Dean nearly complained aloud about it.

            As he buttoned his fly Castiel turned around and saw Dean standing there, his face pale, his eyes wide, and his mouth open.

            “Sorry, Dean, I thought we were cool to drop trou in front of each other after your display in your skivvies this morning.”

            “Cas—”

            “One more time. Why. Are. You. Here?” He punctuated each syllable with a step toward Dean in the confined space, and Dean couldn’t stop himself from reaching out.

            He reached for Castiel’s face, and at first the man ducked back, but upon quickly reassessing the threat he righted himself and stilled. He kept his eyes glued on Dean’s as best he could, although he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Dean’s mouth when he licked his plush lips.

            Castiel knew it was coming, slowly as Dean moved, knew he could stop it, knew he _should_ stop it, but he stood and let the scent of chlorine from the pool and leather and exhaust from the Impala and alcohol from the ale they’d shared envelop him, and God help him, he let Dean Winchester’s lips meet his own.

            At first the kiss was soft and tempered, both men holding back, but when Dean pulled Cas’s face closer and tilted his head more, Cas stepped forward those final few inches and let his hands fall on Dean’s hips. When Cas opened his mouth, Dean lost all restraint and surged forward, leading with tongue and teeth. His lustful grunt filled Castiel’s head and urged him to wrap his arm tighter around the other man, so he grabbed onto those hips and slid his fingers around until he caught the edge of Dean’s tee-shirt and got his hands under it. When his slightly cool hands met Dean’s overheated back, Dean groaned again, louder this time and grinded his pelvis forward. He sucked Castiel’s top lip into his mouth and bit and licked at it until Cas puled away. Castiel leaned in again and Dean loved the feel of his stubble on his face, his hands on his skin. Dean was ready to fall back onto that king sized bed when Cas pulled back and stepped away.

            “Jesus, Dean.” Cas wiped his hand over his mouth and scratched his eyebrow with his thumb. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off Castiel’s mouth and he stepped forward again, chasing in for more until Cas took another step back and held a firm hand to Dean’s shoulder.

            “I want you,” Dean stated plainly.

            “I got that.”

            Dean stepped forward again, and Cas stepped back.

            Cas suggested, “Go on a date with me first?”

            “You’re old fashioned.”

            “We don’t know anything about each other.”

            “False. You know all about me,” Dean couldn’t stop touching Cas, and he ran a hand over his shirt, reveling in the feel of the broad chest beneath it.

            “Drinks?”

            “When?”

            “Tonight. Later. I have to meet Claire in half an hour, Dean.”

            “What time?” Dean asked.

            “Let’s say nine?”

            “I’ll pick you up.”

            “Meet me there.”

            “You don’t wanna ride in my car?” he asked with a tease in his voice.

            “I don’t want to be shanghaied into backseat sex.”

            “Yes you do, trust me.”

            “Meet me there,” Cas repeated as he backed away further and grabbed his car keys.

            Dean stalked forward with every step Cas took back, even though it was evident by now Cas was leading him to the door. “Where?” Dean demanded.

            “Do you know Jeffrey’s?”

            “The swanky restaurant?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “They have a nice bar.”

            “That they do.” Castiel held the door open for Dean.

            “It’s a date,” Dean smiled beautifully.

 


	8. Sunday 6pm-1am

            Claire answered the door when Cas rang the bell, and before he could blink he had a face full of blonde hair and an octopus around his waist.

            "Unff. You're taller every time I come over."

            "Hey, Dad."

            "Here's your cream fresh."

            "It's _crème fraîche_."

            " _Pardonnez-moi_."

            He followed her into the kitchen. At thirteen, Claire was supposed to be in her awkward stage. Castiel didn't know if it was his fatherly bias, or what, but to him she was gliding right past awkward and straight into beautiful. Her pink cheeks were round and blue eyes large, giving her a doll like appearance. Her long blonde hair was half braided and half wild. He noticed she was wearing lipgloss, but he didn't mention it. He and Amelia had agreed that Claire wouldn't be allowed to wear makeup until high school, but he wouldn't press the point.

            Thinking about school reminded Castiel that report cards had just come out.

            "Where's that report card you promised me?"

            Claire finished scooping the crème fraîche into her pan and rolled her eyes while she was at it.

            Once she had the flame on as low as she could get it, she wiped her hands and scurried over to her backpack to fish the report card out.

            She made to hand it over, but when Cas reached for it she pressed it tight to her chest, "Now, I know what you're going to say."

            He put his hands on his hips and gave her his "you're pushing your luck" face.

            "That class is so hard!" she whined handing the paper to him, finally.

            Cas scanned the report, and his eye caught on the class in question. "English class, Claire? You made a seventy-seven in English?"

            "All we do is write these stupid reports."

            "All I do at work is write stupid reports. It's a skill you'll need forever."

            "Not true. You capture bad guys. Have you caught the murderer, yet?"

            Castiel noticed the change of topic, but he allowed it as Claire went back to the stove, adding herbs and stirring.

            "What makes you think I've got a murderer to catch?"

            "Duh. You work homicide."

            "And I write a lot of reports."

            "But there were two murders recently, and you're the best detective at APD, so obviously it's your case."

            "What do you know about that?"

            She shrugged. "Only what I read in the paper."

            "I'm glad to hear you're reading something other than text messages these days, considering your grade in English."

            "Dad!"

            He mimicked her outrage, "Claire!" and she threw a sprig of parsley at him.

            Once she served the meal, chicken breasts with an herbed cream sauce, wilted kale with lemon and pepper, and an orzo with almonds on the side, Cas dug in heartily and complimented her profusely. He had seconds of the orzo and kale, and Claire was delighted.

            "Hey, pumpkin," he approached a bit awkwardly, "what do you know about Dean Winchester?"

            "I knew it!" she exclaimed. "I knew you were on the case tied to Dean's godfather."

            "You're on a first name basis with him?"

            She blushed, but pretended she hadn't. "He's so smart and beautiful and talented, and his voice!" Her eyes rolled back in her head. "Did you know that he practically raised his little brother, who's a lawyer now, and he restored his car all on his own. He drives a nineteen sixty-seven Impala with leather seats and a V-8 engine."

            Castiel stared and quizzed her. "What's a V-8 engine?"

            Claire's smile dropped, and she shrugged.

            He smirked, "That's quite a lot of trivia."

            "He's awesome, and he writes all his own music and has three Grammys. Come with me," she enthused, and dragged her father to her bedroom.

            The posters, the clippings from the  _Austin Chronicle_ , and the magazine images covered every inch of white space on the walls. The biggest poster in the room, right over Claire's bed, was Dean Winchester, shirtless, in only low-slung, tight black jeans and boots, leaning over a microphone singing his brains out. The whole wall around that poster was dedicated to more Dean Winchester articles, clippings, and images. There was a picture of him lifting himself out of a swimming pool, a picture of him under his classic car, covered in sweat and grease, a picture of him toasting his friend Benny at his wedding.

            Castiel stood in the doorway of the bedroom and looked at it all with new eyes. Obviously he had been in here before, but he had never noticed _who_ was on display. Claire had pretty eclectic taste in music for a thirteen year old, and the walls that were not all about Dean paid homage to a lot of girl bands: Hole and Elastica he recognized from Claire's enthusiastic review of the C _aptain Marvel_  soundtrack. She also had some pretty old material represented: Banarama and The Bangles; Destiny's Child and Salt N Pepa. 

            Another wall held screen heartthrobs: Cole Sprouse, Chris Evans, and others that Castiel didn't even recognize. He turned back to the poster of Winchester, realizing he had tuned Claire's rambling about him out.

            "And this one is for his mother. Isn't that sweet?" she finished, pointing to a tattoo right over the singer's heart.

            "Yes," he said absently. This was crazy. He shared a crush with his thirteen-year-old daughter. He was about to meet the crush for drinks. He was fully distracted from his case, and...

            He cut his thoughts off. It was Sunday night, the one night a week he allowed himself to really tune work out. There was nothing wrong with taking a little time for himself. After all, he couldn't do anything more with the case until he had his team in tomorrow morning.

            "What happened to the stuffed animal brigade?" he asked Claire.

            She scoffed. "They're in the closet now. I'm too old for toys."

            Castiel nodded absently and felt a pang in his heart. She was growing up.

______

 

            "Two nights in a row, Cassie. This is recently unprecedented." Balthazar started mixing his Rusty Nail without being asked.

            "I'm meeting someone," Castiel stated.

            "Ooh, work or play?"

            Cas smirked. "A little of both."

            "Intrigue!" Balthazar enthused as he set the cocktail in front of Castiel.

            Castiel felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck when the front door to the place opened at 9:04. The hostess pointed Dean to the bar, and Castiel's eyes nearly fell out of his head at the sight before him.

            Jeffrey's had a dress code, and Castiel had wondered if he should text Dean to warn him. Then he had wondered if, where Dean was concerned, Balthazar would bother enforcing it anyway.

            It turned out to be of no import, as Dean had polished himself up in the interim since their kiss.

            He wore a crisp, black, raw silk tailored shirt with little pearl skulls for buttons along with sinfully tight charcoal pants and a studded black leather belt. He had thick leather bands on his right wrist and his hair slicked to one side. His green eyes were faintly lined with black coal and his scent was permeated with bergamot and sandalwood undertones.

            He leaned in to kiss Cas on his stunned mouth before turning around to look through the bar and restaurant areas. While Dean's back was turned, Balthazar's mouth and eyes opened wide in a Muppet-like silent scream. Castiel glared at the bartender before asking Dean what he wanted to drink.

            “I’ll have what he’s having,” Dean smiled to Balthazar, who nodded, completely disaffected and cool. The faker.

 

            Dean felt his fingertips tingle after his second rusty nail. Cas' drink was good, and Jeffrey's drinks were strong; the scotch would've stood on its own without the Drambuie. On top of the great drinks, Cas looked edible. Dean almost couldn't concentrate on his own rhubarb and blueberry pie while he watched Cas devour a French silk slice with his cocktail. Dean stopped himself too many times to count when he felt compelled to lean in and lick the chocolate from Castiel's lips.

            In order to save himself from making a scene, he decided to make conversation. "How was dinner with your daughter?"

            Cas laughed. "It was great. She's a wonderful cook."

            "Unlike her old man."

            "Definitely unlike me," Castiel conceded.

            "What did y'all eat?"

            "Ah, chicken with crème fraiche and kale and an orzo pilaf thing."

            Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Definitely not your usual teenage fare."

            "No, she likes to impress me. She thinks I don't eat on my own."

            Dean nodded in agreement with the before waving at Balthazar for another round, "From what I've seen, she's right."

            Cas narrowed his eyes at Dean, "Don't you start in on me. I eat... Breakfast. I eat breakfast everyday, the most important meal of the day."

            "But what about lunch?" Dean pressed. "What about dinner?" he asked, leaning in closer. "What about dessert?" he whispered right into Castiel's ear.

            Balthazar was there, behind Dean's back leaving two more cocktails on little paper napkins, and he saw Castiel's eyelids flutter. His eyebrow went up and his eyelid went down in an outrageous wink that nearly had Cas snorting scotch from his nose. Cas raised his hand, ostensibly to smooth Dean's collar and flipped Balthazar off. The bartender put his nose in the air and turned on his heel to start closing out the cocktail waitress so she could cut out early since her last table just left. The bar closed at midnight on Sundays, and soon it would be just the three of them shutting the place down.

            Castiel resituated himself on his bar stool and let the scotch relax his shoulders. He was on a date with a spectacularly handsome man at a delightfully quiet bar drinking the best cocktails in Austin. Dean dropped his cocktail napkin and slid off his stool to bend and pick it up. When he uprighted himself and put the little napkin on the bar he just happened to be standing between Castiel's knees.

            Both men were hyper aware that the other patrons had left. Dean's hand found Cas's thigh. Castiel set his empty glass back on the bar. He didn't protest or throw up a hand when Dean stepped in closer and hovered near his face. He said nothing when the singer's scent enveloped him and his breath warmed up his neck.

            Cas only uttered, "Dean," soft and low, as his mouth felt the press of soft lips against it. He protested no further but opened his mouth and reveled in the feel of Dean's tongue--cold from sucking on his ice. The taste of the cocktail was faint because they'd both been drinking the same thing. 

            For his part, Dean only crowded in closer and slid his hand around Castiel's back, and he lost track of time in Castiel's mouth.

            Through some unspoken but mutual decision the men each dropped a few bills on the bar and left in tandem. The two-block walk to Castiel's house passed hand-in-hand in silence without seeing another soul. 

            Silla was in her bed and hardly looked up when her master stumbled in, fumbling with Dean's pearl buttons while the singer's mouth stayed attached to his throat.

            "Cas, Cas, Cas." Dean panted against his neck. "Let me, Cas. Can I?" he nipped at the tender skin, "Let me leave a mark on you."

            Cas couldn't reply, but he grunted an affirmation, and Dean's hands were everywhere: attacking Cas's belt buckle, grabbing at his ass, thumbing open his buttons, pulling at his hair. Cas gave as good as he got: backing Dean toward the bed, mussing up his hair, and pulling the silk shirttails out of his trousers.

            The night was dark, and Dean was out of his element, but Cas knew the number of steps to the bed by heart, and although some part of him mourned the darkness once he had removed Dean's shirt, he knew he'd get a chance to study that ink up close another day.

            Dean’s cock, once he escaped his pants was throbbing with want, Cas took it in hand, and the heat from his palm was soothing. Dean didn’t want to be soothed. He thrust against Cas’s palm.

            “Wait, Dean, wait.”

            The only waiting Dean could do was to shift his concentration back to Castiel’s throat for the moment, and he latched on and sucked a deep, throbbing bruise.

            Cas panted as he pulled his own pants off, hindered as he was by Dean’s weight and affections.

            Finally, finally both men were free of the encumbrance of clothing and Cas shoved Dean onto the bed. He dove in after, and both men moaned when his mouth found Dean’s nipple. Dean reached between them and took both cocks into his fist before finding a rhythm and enjoying the hot slip of their cocks against one another.

            “Dean, unff, more.”

            “Fuck it, Cas. Fuck.”

            They were both insensible with lust and frenzied with passion. Each man chased his pleasure in the other’s body unabashedly. Dean’s hand grew slick with their combined precum, and Cas panted onto his chest as he thrust at a rhythm in harmony with Dean’s own.

            “Tighter, Dean,” Cas demanded as they thrust in and out. He added his own hand around Dean’s and squeezed.

            “Jesus fucking shit,” Dean articulated when his orgasm hit. He spurted onto Castiel’s stomach and then felt Cas claw at the back of his neck as he came next on Dean’s hand. Cas brought their mouths together again and they devoured each other’s passion until they settled there under the skylight in Castiel’s bed and simply held one another in the silence.

            Dean dozed but didn’t want to let himself fall into a real sleep, not having been invited to spend the night, so he tried to keep himself awake by chatting. “Can I get you a towel or..?”

            “Don’t worry about it,” Cas replied, his voice low and fucked out, sleepy.

            “Are you thirsty or anything?”

            “What is it, Dean?”

            “Huh?”

            “Is chatty your default post-coital setting? Because I’m not sure that’s going to work for me.”

            “Earlier when I dropped by this was exactly what I wanted.”

            “Earlier when you dropped by, I thought you had come over to needle me about Sam some more.”

            “I—” Dean looked sheepish. “I did. That’s why I got in my car and started driving here, anyway. Why should you get to enjoy an evening with family when I can’t? But then as soon as I saw you…”

            “Sam is fine, Dean. These people, they want it known when they kill someone. They don’t hide their victims. Sam is hiding himself. I thought it was because he was involved somehow, at first, but I don’t think that any more. He’s hiding until we catch these guys because he knows there’s a target on his back. And we _will_ catch these guys. Tomorrow. By then, the computers and the guys who are smarter than me will have finished crunching it all up, and we’ll have a name, a face, an address, as much as we need.”

            Dean looked into Castiel’s eyes, devoid of color as they were in the darkness. “You think he’s hiding.”

            “Yes.”

            “Not kidnapped.”

            “Why would they kidnap him and keep it quiet? You kidnap someone when you want something. No one has said they want something, have they?” Castiel reasoned.

            Dean sat up abruptly and grabbed for his pants.

            “Dean?”

            “I know where Sammy is,” he declared, moving faster than Cas could follow as he retrieved his clothing.

 


	9. Sunday 2am to Monday morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is all still fiction, okay.

            Castiel was almost out the door on Dean's heels when he went back for his weapon. He barely had time to jump in Dean's car before it peeled out.

            "Dean, this is a residential neighborhood."

            He heard Silla woof in the distance as Dean growled, "Jesus, arrest me later."

            "Do you want to tell me where we're going?"

            "Not if you're going to call in the cavalry and get Sammy killed."

            "It's foolish to go into a dangerous situation without backup."

            Dean pointedly ignored him as he sped eastward.

            About half an hour into the drive the tense silence fell away to Dean's humming. For him a night drive was like coming home; he had toured in this car early on in a caravan along with a Civic that somehow fit a whole drum kit and Benny and his girlfriend. Driving from town to town before sun-up had been their way of life.

            At first Castiel was too invested in his phone's GPS, following their path east out of Austin, to notice the sound, but soon enough it cut through his consciousness.

            Dean's voice truly was a thing of beauty, at once rough and sublime. The humming soon gave way to singing. Castiel watched Dean's face, and he seemed oblivious of his audience. 

 

_Listen_

_I met a dick the other day_

_With eyes like knives_

_He slithers ‘neath my skin when I’m asleep._

_When I wake I feel_

_His eyes like knives_

_And chase his phantom lips. Oh I could weep._

_I told this dick with poison lips_

_And eyes like knives_

_Come slither on my skin and let me take_

_What’s mine, oh mine-_

_Your eyes like knives_

_Keep your quiet curse I want your kiss._

 

 

            As he finished, he smirked, and Castiel knew Dean was teasing him.

            "You can't be serious about those lyrics."

            Dean made a stern face. "Criticizing my writing chops, Cas?"

            "You have nothing to prove to me, Dean."

            Dean chanced a glance over to his passenger. Cas was studying him. 

            Dean explained, "Paul McCartney once said in an interview that he wrote the melody for 'Yesterday' using a place holder for the lyric. So the song, at first, was 'Scrambled Eggs.'"

            Dean sang (to the tune of 'Yesterday'): “Scrambled eggs, Oh you’ve got such lovely legs, Scrambled eggs. Oh, my baby, how I love your legs.”

            Castiel cracked up and Dean let himself smile. 

            "It's the tune," Dean said. "The melody makes it a hit. The lyric is secondary."

            "Still, you couldn't record a song about a dick slithering over your skin."

            Dean side-eyed Cas. "Couldn't I?"

            "Think of all your thirteen-year-old female fans, Dean."

            "They'd ship it."

            "Ship? it?" Cas was baffled.

            "Wor _ship_ the relation _ship_. Come on, Cas, I thought you had a teenage daughter. You should at least speak the language."

            "Ship it," Cas mused.

            Dean's face got serious when they passed a sign for Lost Pines State Park. "We're here," he said as he turned northward into a forest.

            After another ten minutes of considerably slower driving on a gravel road, an ancient farmhouse and a car came into view. The new moon offered no light on the scene, so Dean chose not to cut his Impala’s lights when he shut the car off.

            “That car fits the description of the vehicle that was stolen from Singer’s garage Friday night.”

            “You didn’t tell me a car was stolen from Bobby’s.”

            “It was none of your business.”

            Dean scowled as his boots crunched on the gravel drive. “Like hell. I would’ve found Sammy yesterday if I’d known he jacked a car.”

            Castiel chose to ignore the implications for the moment as he lifted his phone to his ear. Dean grabbed his elbow.

            “You are not calling this in.”

            “I’m calling this in, Dean.”

            Dean wrenched the phone from Cas’s hand.

            “What the—“ Cas began to protest before a voice called from the house.

            “Dean, is that you?”

            Dean turned abruptly. “Sammy!” And he jogged up the crumbling porch steps.

            Castiel had no choice but to follow; Dean still had his phone.

            Dean pulled the ancient screen door open with a creak and entered the dark house. “Can’t you put some lights on in here, Sam?”

            “Dean, why did you come?”

            Dean followed the sound of his brother’s voice in the darkness and found him hunkered down between some old bookcases behind a desk.

            There was a lantern on the desk, barely visible in the darkness but still hot to the touch. Dean found his lighter in his pocket and lit the place up.

            Sam, in a heap of old rust stained blankets, was pale as a ghost. His hair was greasy and unwashed, and his shirt was stained like the blankets. It took Dean a moment to register it was blood.

            “What the—“ Dean didn’t get the chance to finish because as Castiel came in behind him, Sam tensed and squirmed in panic, trying to hide.

            “No, Sammy, shh. Shh. He’s okay. This is Cas. He’s a cop.”

            “Did you catch them?” Sam asked hopefully.

            Cas looked from Sam to Dean and back again. By now, Dean was kneeling beside his brother, who Cas could tell was feverish and weak.

            “Did you catch them?” Sam repeated intensely.

            “We’ll have them soon. It’s falling into place later today.”

            “If you could give us a description—Dean, give me my phone. Sammy obviously needs an ambulance.”

            “It’s Sam,” both brothers corrected him.

            Cas nodded, and Dean made to hand over the phone when Sam tensed and knocked it away. “Dean, shut out the light!” Sam stage-whispered in a panic. It took both newcomers a long moment to realize the gravel driveway outside was crunching with the arrival of a new vehicle.

            Cas pulled his weapon out of his pants and went to the window as Dean doused the light.

            “It’s a black, late model sedan,” Cas narrated. “From here it looks like the plate matches your UFO.”

            “Fuck,” Dean cursed under his breath. “We led them right here.”

            Cas was still as a statue at the window and his voice was deadly low and cold. “Dean, get beneath the desk next to Sam, and stay there.” Cas listened for his compliance, a rustling against the floorboards and allowed himself to peer back into the darkened room when he heard nothing.

            His eyes met Sam’s panic-stricken face, and Sam pointed toward the back of the farmhouse. No doubt there was a back door.

            Too late for Cas to stop Dean, he motioned for Sam to get down and bury himself in the blankets, and he took his stand at the front window.

            Later, he would blame a flick of his own wrist lighting up the face of his watch for what happened next: before he could even see the enemy in the front yard, a shot rang out and struck Cas in the left arm. He cursed and peered into the darkness and took a shot of his own at the first movement he saw by the car. A voice cried out, and then Cas saw Dean, and for a moment he thought he had done the unthinkable and shot his lover.

            But no. Dean was too far from Castiel’s target to have been struck; he was coming up from the left side of the house toward the black sedan, low and slow. No way anyone from the car would have been able to see him yet with the Impala in the way and her lights casting long shadows and big targets on the house itself.

            With that thought in mind, Cas moved toward the front door instead of the window. His movement attracted attention, and another two shots rang out in the night, but he made it to the door. Then several things happened at once.

            First, the Impala’s lights went dark, and Dean’s sprinting footsteps crunched loudly in the gravel. A voice screamed, and Castiel darted out the screen door into the darkness.

            His eyes were doubly blind in the dark, his vision covered with black splotches left over from the bright white light of the headlights now gone. Cas reached the black sedan without being able to get off another shot, not knowing where Dean was, and miraculously without getting hit again. His arm had begun to burn and throb where the blood escaped him. He had to finish this before it became too much and he ended up out for the count like Sam.

            A gruff grunt very close by made Cas spin, and finally he got eyes on Dean again, wrestling with an armed gunman. With Dean confirmed at his three, Cas was confident in shooting at the next sound to his six whence another volley of shots rang out. The shooter winged Dean’s adversary and then went down himself as Cas let fly half a dozen rounds into the man who had just fired at Dean.

            “Cas,” Dean coughed, and Castiel turned to see that the men still grappled though now without the gun between them, thank God. He ran over and cocked his pistol in the strangers face and leveled it at his temple until he stilled.

            “Dean, I saw zip ties on the table inside,” Cas said calmly, and without replying Dean took off for the house. From his periphery, Castiel saw the lantern’s glow shine from the window and he heard the screen door creak and then crash against the door frame before Dean’s clomping footsteps closed back in.

            With a mere look, Cas instructed Dean to tie the perpetrator’s hands behind his back. They put him on the porch where the lantern light gave them eyes on him.

            “Dean, turn your car’s lights back on, and then go check on Sam and bring me my phone.” His voice was all authority, and Dean followed instructions to the letter.

            It was twenty minutes before the ambulance arrived, hot on the heels of a single Bastrop County Sheriff’s car. Once the deputy took in the scene and heard Castiel’s story, he was quick to get the Sheriff himself out of bed at 4am on a Monday morning. The teams from Austin were called in as well, but they would be forty-five minutes at best.

            When the ambulance driver had loaded Sam and tried to get Castiel to ride as well so they could get the bullet out of his arm, he flatly refused to leave a single deputy to manage the crime scene. He said he’d be along later after his colleagues showed up. Dean left in the ambulance with Sam with a promise that someone would be back for his car.

            With the deputy watching the bound suspect, Cas finally breathed and took in the situation. Sam had been shot in the leg for taking that UFO photo when Bobby’s killers were getting away. They had spotted the flash and come back for him. He had taken the car in Bobby’s garage bay and fled to this old place that had once belonged to John Winchester and hid out, checking the news on the portable weather radio every four hours. As long as the case remained unsolved he was staying in hiding because he got a look at the shooter that night and recognized a celebrity.

            El Chavo was a notorious Central American drug lord. The United States identified him as Belezian, but Belize disavowed him and insisted he was Costa Rican. It was all semantics, anyway, considering his vast acreage of growing fields were in Colombia. Although no one was sure where El Chavo hailed from, everyone knew his face, Sam included, and when he had spotted the mustachioed man with heavy black eyebrows he had known he was in trouble. Of course, the man shooting Bobby in the head was also a dead giveaway.

            By the time the second ambulance arrived and insisted on taking Castiel away, he was feeling light headed from pain and exhausted from the adrenaline drop. At least at that point the place was swarming with APD, Bastrop County sheriffs, and Bastrop police. Even his lieutenant had arrived, unshaven and grumpy from the early hour, to collect Castiel's gun and badge and see to the paperwork.

            As the sun came up, Charlie Bradbury and a young man named Garth showed up to retrieve Dean's "Baby." 

            "Charlie," Cas asked with his hand on the car window as she started the motor, "How's Sam?"

            "He's in surgery," she replied before backing out between various emergency vehicles.

            "Detective, we are taking you with us now," one of the EMTs stated in a tone that brooked no retort. “Would you like to be conscious for it?”

            Lieutenant McLeod was there to back the guy up. "Get in the damn ambulance already, Novak."

            Provided no other option, Cas obeyed with the consoling thought that at least he would end up at the same hospital as Sam and, by extension, Dean.

 

 

            Cas must have passed out for part of the drive because they arrived at Seton-Smithfield Medical in no time. Once inside, the good meds were administered, and Cas was in and out of it as the emergency surgeon removed the bullet from where it had lodged against his humerus. He was set up in recovery with his arm bruising like an old banana. After obediently resting for a coupe of hours, he was alert enough to want the bathroom and in pain enough to not want to lie still any longer. 

            Cas couldn't find his shirt and probably couldn't have put it on anyway, considering his left arm was strapped to his chest. Despite this, he was undeterred from walking out into the corridor, looking for Sam's recovery room.

            It turned out Sam and Dean were right next door. Sam was in a bed, hospital gown draped over him while Dean was on the hard plastic chair at his bedside, despite there being a comfy-ish looking lounge chair by the window.

            When Castiel walked in, Dean looked up and a light smile hit his mouth. 

            "You're alive," Dean sighed and got to his feet. He approached Cas with swift strides but stopped himself before throwing his arms around the other man, considering his bandages.

            They, however, did nothing to stop Castiel from throwing a brutal punch with his right. Dean was blindsided and unbalanced, despite Castiel's handicap, and he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender while exclaiming, "What the fuck?"

            "Don't. Don't 'what the fuck' me, Dean Winchester. You could have been killed."

            "How was I supposed to know--"

            "What, that they could track the most recognizable car in Austin and follow you to your brother? Jesus Christ, Dean, that whole thing was reckless and foolhardy and ridic--"

            Castiel's tirade was cut off by Dean's mouth on his. Dean's fingers gripped Cas's hair for all he was worth and after the brief moment it took for Castiel's brain to catch up, he settled into the kiss and channeled his fury and fear into it. The passion was palpable in the room, and unfortunately Dean's initial curse had awakened Sam, who at this point cleared his throat uncomfortably.

            "Uh, guys?"


	10. Monday mid-day to Friday night

            Castiel pulled away from the kiss first, and Dean reluctantly untangled his fingers from Cas's hair. Sam's eyes were wide and glassy, and Cas hoped Dean's brother would not remember this moment later. (He would be disappointed.)

            "What...?"

            "Sam, I'm Detective Novak with APD, and--"

            Sam shook his head and eyed the angry-looking deep, red hickey on the detective’s naked throat. "No. I think we're on a first name basis."

            "Sammy, this is Cas. He's gonna move in with me, and we're gonna have a barbecue and invite you over, and you can meet his awesome dog and his daughter and all his friends. But right now, you need to recover from your bonehead move."

            Sam scoffed. "Bonehead? Dean, I was a dead man. I survived."

            "You were shot, and instead of running to the hospital where the police could keep an eye on you, you ran and tried to dig the bullet out of your own thigh. How'd that work out? You'll be lucky to be walking with a cane!"

            "Dean," Cas put his hand on Dean's arm, "let him rest."

            "Yeah, Sammy. Rest."

            Sam deflated a little as Dean pushed the red button on his remote control.

 

____

 

            Sam fell asleep as soon as the nurse had checked his vitals and drugged him up again. She offered Castiel a set of scrubs so he could get out of his bloodied jeans and cover up his naked torso, and he accepted the offer, to Dean's vocal dismay.

            "You don't need to put on a shirt on my account."

            Castiel gave him the eyebrow and asked, "Moving in with you?"

            Dean slipped his hands around Cas's waist and stepped up close. "Why not?"

            Cas coughed out a little laugh. "How about because we've only known each other for two days?"

            "What better way to get to know each other?"

            "How about dating?" Cas countered.

            "Who has time for that? I'll be finishing my tour for the month of April, then it'll be summer time, and we'll want to have sex in the pool as much as possible, and we can't possibly do that at your place where the pool doesn't even belong to you."

            "Dean, when I first laid eyes on you on Friday night, you were having sex with multiple partners."

            Dean released Cas and sat heavily in his chair. "It was... Sam wasn't gonna be there, you know? A homecoming show without family, so I just wanted to live it up and let off steam in a big way. So the drinks, and the twinks, and groupies. It's not like I did that shit every night. It was occasional."

            Castiel sat in the other chair with the set of scrubs in his lap. He was eager to change, but this conversation needed to happen. "How do I know that, Dean? I like you. We definitely have chemistry, but like you said, you're heading back out next week, and how do I know you're not going to pick up where you left off?"

            Dean's eyes betrayed his hurt, "Because I'm promising you, Cas. I told you I want you, and I meant it. I keep my promises for the people I want in my life."

            Cas ran a hand through his hair. It was high time he got himself some pain meds and checked in with the office. All the quotidian things that would take place this afternoon and the next day made Dean Winchester and his larger-than-life emotional declarations seem surreal to Cas. It was a Monday for goodness' sake, and instead of meeting with his facial recognition people to take the investigation to the next level, he was on a suspension pending an investigation of exactly-what-the-fuck-he-thought-he-was-doing this morning out at that cabin.

            "Do you even want to try it, Cas?" Dean asked, his heart on his sleeve and there in his wide green eyes.

            Cas looked at him, and if he was honest, he was less scared of this than he should be. "I do," he breathed. "I do want to try this with you."

            Dean's smile lit up the room, and he started humming as he kissed Cas full on the mouth and pulled him to his feet.

            "Go change, Sweetheart. You're a mess.”

            Castiel was eventually hustled back into his own hospital room for pain management, and Dean floated between the two rooms for a while.  Cas talked his way out of an overnight stay but then realized he was stranded in Bastrop without a car. With Sam waking at intervals in increasing degrees of pain and variable lucidity, depending on the infection, Cas knew Dean would not be leaving anytime soon. He was amazed; however, when Dean offered up his car.

            "But she's your Baby."

            "You're my baby now, too, though."

            Cas gave Dean a look, "I'm not driving in my condition anyway, but thanks for the thought."

            "Aww, Cas, are you stoned?"

            "Absolutely."

            In the end, Cas got a Lyft for a ride home, and Dean hovered for a good look at the driver and her demeanor toward Cas when she arrived. He must have decided her threat level was mild because he only planted one sloppy kiss on Cas's mouth when he was getting into her car.

            Silla was anxious when Cas got home because he had missed their morning run and breakfast. He decided a shallow bath was in order, enough to get clean from last night, but not enough to get his dressings wet. It was in the bath that Cas realized just how bone tired he was. He dozed there in the tepid water with the afternoon sun streaming in and Silla snoring vigilantly on the bath rug.

            His stomach was growling by the time he got dressed again and called another ride to take him downtown to the station. He wanted to get the dressing-down out of the way and then get a nice, greasy breakfast for dinner.

            He walked into the bullpen to a chorus of whoops and applause and "The big man is back!" and "El Chavoso," and other such nonsense. 

            Lieutenant McLeod must have heard it all from his office because he called, "Novak, get in here," before Cas's butt even hit his chair.

            "Do you know what I want, Novak?"

            "No, sir."

            "I want to do as little paperwork as possible. My goal from day to day is to deal with as few forms, as few reports, as few emails as possible in my line of work."

            "Yes, sir."

            "Do you know what I've been doing all day, Novak?"

            "Paperwork?"

            "Yes. I've been writing reports, responding to emails, taking damn phone calls. All I want to do is sit here in the beatific knowledge that my team is out there doing good, and doing it right, and creating as little as possible for me to do. Instead, I'm hearing from the mayor's office, from the governor's office, from the FBI and HSA. And do they want me to string you up and flay you alive for your gross negligence and flaunting protocol and bringing a damn civilian--a celebrity civilian, no less-- to the scene of a great big heaping mess of paperwork?"

            "Uh, no?"

            "That's right. They want to give you medals and promotions and interviews."

            Castiel studied his fingernails.

            "They want me to slap you on the back and call you a hero."

            "I'm not," Cas mumbled.

            "What's that?"

            "I'm not a hero. I was in a bad situation and did what I had to do."

            "Damn right you're not a hero... But." McLeod waited for Castiel to look up at him. "But you captured a notorious criminal with a vast network of underworld baddies in his pocket. You took down a menace."

            "I was only doing my job in the moment."

            "And you took a bullet for your trouble. How's the arm?"

            "Painful."

            "Go home, Castiel. Rest, relax. You're on leave with full pay pending Internal Affairs' investigation."

            "Thank you, sir."

            McLeod snorted. "I should be thanking you, kid. But notice that I'm not. Now get out of here. I've got paperwork to do."

_____

 

            Sam was discharged on Friday, and Dean promptly removed his brother to his house by the lake. He stated that taking his to his own place would end in disaster because there’d be no one to take care of him.

            “What makes you think I don’t have someone who’d take care of me, Dean?”

            “One, no one but me and the cops have visited you in the hospital, and B, when I went by your place, there was no second toothbrush, no stray bra, not even a single long hair on the floor that wasn’t yours.”

            Sam bitchfaced his brother.

            On Saturday, Dean asked Cas over because he knew Cas was going to spork his own eyeballs out in frustration if he didn’t get a chance to talk to Sammy and put the whole case to rest in his mind.

            When Cas arrived, Silla was delighted to inspect the house and grounds. Dean had a bag of gourmet doggie biscuits for her, and he poured a big bowl of water in the kitchen and didn’t bat an eye when her lapping made it slosh onto the floor.

            As for Cas, Dean nosed up under his ear and kissed his throat and put his hands anywhere they would reach until Sammy started whining about it. Castiel was bright red and mortified when he was able to slide away from Dean’s hands and mouth and finally meet Sam again, under semi-decent circumstances.

            “I’m glad you’re doing well enough to be here, Sam.”

            “Do you really like my brother, Cas?”

            Cas blushed again, and “What the fuck, Sammy?” Dean came back to throw an arm around Cas and feel him up some more.

            “You’re the one who is always grumbling about golddiggers, Dean.”

            “Are you serious right now, kid?”

            “No, but it’s funny to watch you turn purple.”

            Everybody but Sam got beers and puled up chairs. Sam was in a wheelchair for a few weeks and still on antibiotics and painkillers, so no booze for him. Dean tossed tennis balls all over the property and watched Silla run like a maniac to retrieve them all.

            About half way into his beer, Cas finally loosened up enough to ask, “What happened last Friday night, Sam?”

            Sam sipped his Sprite and sighed. “I went over to Bobby’s just after dinner time to talk about the Colt. The guy who had owned it died a few weeks ago, and Bobby tried to jump in and guy it from the estate, but the heirs had already sold everything in one big lump to a dealer in town.”

            “So it ended up at City-Wide,” Castiel surmised. “Why didn’t Bobby buy it immediately when he found it at the City-Wide Garage Sale?”

            “The dealer had gotten a note about the gun from a mysterious source, so he was hesitant to sell before the mystery guy turned it down,” Sam explained. “But Bobby is a tenacious haggler. He also, um, pocketed the firing pin so the dealer would have no choice but to call him back.”

            “That devil,” Dean admired.

            “Only he didn’t. Call back, I mean, until Friday night. Then Bobby called me saying the phone call was weird. So I drove over there to listen to the message. You know how Bobby screened his calls.”

            Dean and Cas both nodded, even though Castiel knew no such thing.

            “Well, the headshot came out of the blue. I got one of Bobby’s pistols when I heard the bad guys coming up to the landing, and I fired off a couple of rounds. They left, or at first it seemed like they left. It was dark by then, and I knew Bobby was dead, and I didn’t want them to get away, so I took a pic of their car. Only, my flash was on, and they saw it, I guess, and by the time I was calling 911 to get help, they had done a u-turn. So I went down and hid in the garage. I had to turn off my phone when it started ringing again. I saw them do something to my car, so I took the car in the garage bay. The only way I made it out of there was because I knew how to navigate the back way out of the salvage yard and they didn’t.”

            Castiel nodded. It all made sense. “When you saw them do something to your car, that was the tracker we found on it.”

            Dean interrupted. “You should have told me about that, Cas. If I had known we were dealing with spy shit I wouldn’t have taken Baby out to the cabin that night and led them to us. You wouldn’t have that hole in your arm.” Dean felt guilty about leading El Chavo right to Sam and getting Cas injured.

            Cas shrugged, “It’s healing.”

            “I saw the man’s face,” Sam said, “when I was hiding in the garage. I saw it was El Chavo.”

            Castiel concluded, “And that’s why you stayed hidden.”

            Sam nodded. “That was also when it clicked for me. I saw a Bio special on El Chavo a while back, and it talked about what a rare and priceless gun collection he has. Still, I’m sure once I was out of the way, they went back and found that firing pin in Bobby’s pocket. I should have gone back for it.”

            “I disagree. A collectible gun is not worth getting killed over.”

            “He’s right, Sammy, but you should have gone to a hospital instead of hiding out. I can’t believe you drove for an hour with that slug in your thigh.”

            “I didn’t see a choice, Dean. I figured if they tracked me to a public place, more people would be hurt.”

            Dean handed Cas a second cold beer from the ice bucket and popped another for himself.

            “This still doesn’t explain Derek.”

            “I remembered seeing him at CWGS that day,” Sam added.

            “You weren’t the only one taking pictures at the Garage Sale, were you, Sam?” Cas asked.

            “No, Bobby took some with his phone, too.”

            “I think El Chavo’s people got Bobby’s phone that night when they went in for the part to the Colt—we never found his phone on the scene—and they recognized the same thing I did,” Cas began. Both Dean and Sam peered at him expectantly until he went on. “You weren’t the only one who recognized El Chavo, Sam. Derek did, too. When we got into _his_ phone, there were no fewer than thirteen pictures of El Chavo and his henchman on the roll from that day, and I bet if we were to look at Bobby’s camera roll, we’d find Derek in the background of one of Bobby’s photos, just like Derek was in the background of a couple of yours, Sam, with his camera pointed directly at the notorious celebrity.”

            Dean interjected, “So you’re implying Derek was a star collector.”

            “Exactly right.”

            Sam cut in as the two other met stared into each other’s eyes. “What’s a star collector?”

            Dean supplied the answer, “It’s like a groupie. A super groupie. Someone who literally collects memorabilia from their meetings with famous people in hopes that a little fifteen-minute-magic will rub off on them, too.”

            “So Derek was killed for taking pictures of El Chavo.”

            “It’s also possible,” Castiel conjectured, “that he actually approached El Chavo that day, but we can’t know that for sure.”

            Sam looked rightfully disturbed. “Huh. Poor kid.”

            “Stupid kid,” Dean corrected.

 


	11. Friday night

            Once Sammy was tucked in to the downstairs guest room (He was restricted to the ground floor because of his wheelchair), Cas snapped his fingers at Silla who was trying to make herself comfy on the memory foam kitchen rug in front of the sink.

            “What are you doing?” Dean asked.

            “Going home,” Cas replied as if it were obvious.

            Dean pushed gently against his chest until the blue-eyed man was once again sprawled on the sofa. “You’re not going anywhere.” He straddled Cas.

            “Dean.”

            “Cas,” he replied against his lips. The kiss lasted long enough for Silla to trot back over to the kitchen mat and try once more to fit her large frame onto the soft rectangle.

            “But your brother—“

            “Do me a favor, Cas. Don’t talk about my brother when we’re making out.”

            Cas mumbled something incomprehensible against Dean’s mouth, and Dean had just enough patience left to explain. “I finally got you here. If you think I’m letting you get away before I’ve had you in my bed, you’re insane.” With that he ground down and coaxed an absolutely filthy groan from Cas’s throat.

            “And that’s our cue to go upstairs,” Dean grinned.

            As much as he was loath to get off of Castiel’s lap, Dean knew they needed to be out of Sam’s earshot for what came next, so he pulled Cas up the stairs, slowly, pausing more than once to bite at Cas’s throat against the banister and drop Cas’s shirt over the landing. By the time they made it to Dean’s bedroom, Cas’s lips were kiss-slick and swollen dark. Moreover, his nipples were hard as nails, his belt was gone, and his button fly was open.

            Dean stepped backwards, away from Cas a pace, and stared. “You’re fucking breathtaking, Cas. I need a photo of you just like this.”

            Panting shallowly with eyes blown black, Cas didn’t object to the objectification of a photo, despite the bandage on his left arm and the purple-black bruise slinking out from under it. As soon as the picture was snapped, Cas stalked closer to Dean, backed him right up to the bed, and pushed him down. “Dean Winchester. I want to know what every inch of ink on your skin feels like against my tongue.”

            Dean was game, and he ripped off his shirt.

            Cas was as good as his word, and his mouth was everywhere until Dean was completely undressed, undone, and unhinged.

            “Cas, please,” he begged desperately, pulling at the wild hair on Cas’s head.

            “Shhh,” Cas soothed as he licked a squiggle of red ink that meandered through Dean’s happy trail, “I’m going to make you feel so good, Dean.”

            Dean groaned and then choked on the sound when Cas swallowed his cock and pressed his thumb into Dean’s hole in the same move. Considering he was essentially one-handed, Cas was fucking talented.

            When Dean recovered from the initial ecstasy, he reached into his bedside table for lube and poured it generously into Cas’s hand when he held his palm up for it. Castiel teased Dean’s prostrate and sucked his beautiful fat cock until Dean pushed him off.

            “Get in me before I embarrass myself,” Dean whispered. Cas manhandled Dean onto his belly then rose up above him, braced on his arm, to kiss Dean senseless again. Castiel’s mouth was hot and wet and wide and perfect, and his tongue on the backs of Dean’s teeth was heavenly. Dean could kiss this man forever. But there was an endgame in mind, and Cas held his cock against Dean’s hole as he ripped open a condom with his teeth. The tease of flesh on flesh before the condom was in place had both their cocks leaking already, and the sweat that collected in Cas’s hairline beaded up and rained sparse sprinkles across Dean’s naked shoulders. Dean was twisted to his left, reaching for Castiel’s mouth like his life depended on each kiss.

            “Dean, Dean, stop kissing me now. Put your head down and relax for me. That’s it, beautiful. Hips up. Just like that,” Cas gently coaxed Dean into position and slid inside all the way to his pelvis. “Oh, Jesus, Dean. So tight,” he muttered against the curve of Dean’s freckled and dampened shoulder blades.

            Soon the unmistakable slap slap slap of bodies coming together echoed off the uncluttered surfaces of the room. Dean grunted loudly with each of Cas’s thrusts and dug his fingers into the bedclothes for traction. Cas held himself over Dean with his good arm, but soon it trembled from exertion and the imminent onset of bliss.

            “Are you going to come like this, Dean?” Cas panted.

            When Dean didn’t answer other than the ordinary grunt, Cas slapped his right butt cheek hard, leaving behind a hot handprint, eliciting a yelp. “Are you going to come? I don’t think I’m good for a reacharound, Dean.”

            “Oh fuck. I forgot about your handicap, big guy. Let me ride you. Wanna come on your dick.”

            Cas put his mouth against Dean’s sweat-slick shoulder to suck and nibble as he thrust once more before pulling out and collapsing on his side. “Fuck,” he muttered, and Dean knew exactly what he meant.

            Dean pushed Cas onto his back and straddled his lap, and Dean’s groaning picked up again as he speared himself on Cas’s cock.

            “Oh Jesus fuck!”

            Dean rode the ecstasy, and Cas was close. He used his rock solid muscle to pump his groin up into Dean. Cas fucked harder, deeper, faster.

            A litany of whispered swears flitted through the humid air between them, punctuated by the slap slap slap and pant pant pant of two men in the throes of passion.

            When he came, Dean yelled and curled his frame rigid-- which gave Cas extra leverage to peg away at Dean’s exploding prostrate as Cas worked himself over the edge. Cas didn’t yell, but his voice afterward was strangled-rough and spent. He finally calmed and fell back onto the feathered duvet and memory foam mattress and let the power of that perfect moment wash over him, sated, sweaty, and satisfied.

            Dean allowed himself a brief, languid respite, lying chest to chest on his lover, before pulling up and taking care of the condom, sloppily. When Dean got back to the bed, Cas was on his back looking up at him with a beautiful smile on his face. Dean mirrored the smile, “You like it rough and dirty, Cas.”

            Cas didn’t reply, just looked at Dean like he had just won the lottery and was incidentally thoroughly and gorgeously fucked out, so Dean went on, “It’s okay. That’s how I like it, too.”

            Dean climbed over Cas to get into the bed and tugged at him to get into a comfortable position.

            “Are you trying to pull me into that wet spot, Dean?” Cas asked.

            Dean laughed, “Wanna wallow in filth with you.”

            “I’m not sleeping in the wet spot, you heathen.” Cas reached for the lamp with his bum arm and hissed. Dean leaned up on his elbow to reach the light and turn it off.

            “It’s a big bed,” coaxed Dean as darkness descended over them. “I promise you won’t end up in the wet spot.”

            “We could change the covers. Stop pulling at me.”

            “Come closer.”

            “Stop tickling, Dean!”

            “I’m not.”

            “You so were. That’s a rotten way to treat me without an arm to retaliate with.”

            “Shh. Go to sleep now.”

___

 

            The next morning, Cas grumbled about waking up in the wet spot, so Dean pulled him into the shower and made him forget all about it.

            On his knees, Dean was sin incarnate. His mouth worked Cas over like this was his true calling.

            He hummed and slurped and gagged and swallowed, and Cas held on for Dear life. When he tried to get Dean’s cock in hand afterward, Dean laughed at him. “Quit your fumbling, you gimp.”

            “I owe you an orgasm,” Cas explained as he continued to palm Dean’s dick.

            Dean kissed him soundly. “I like having your IOU on file, man.”

            Later when Dean walked across the sofa on his knees, he smiled to himself at the aching bruises he felt there. Sex was the best feeling, and feeling sex after the fact was amazing.

 


	12. Memorial Day and beyond

**\-- > Do you feel like Mexican tonight?**

            Cas smiled at his daughter's text. Dean looked up at him but said nothing. He knew it had to be a text from Claire because it always was on a Sunday around this time. Dean went back to reading his emails.

            "Dean?"

            "Mmm?" He replied over his coffee cup.

            "How would you feel if I invited Claire over here for dinner tonight?"

            Dean's face lit up in a wide smile. "You mean I've finally hit 'meet the fam' status?"

            Castiel frowned. "It was never like that. You're not a secret."

            Dean tilted his grin and looked away, "Maybe not, but she doesn't know about me."

            "It's--"

            So help me, if you say 'It's complicated...'"

            "Well, it is. She has a three foot wide poster of you above her bed."

            "So do a lot of people, Cas. We talked about this. It's just part of the baggage I carry."

            Castiel's face softened and he reached across the table to take Dean's hand. "It's not baggage, Dean. I don't consider it baggage. It's part of the package, and I accepted it wholeheartedly. I should have introduced Claire to you weeks ago."

            Dean leans across the table to kiss Cas and nearly overturns his coffee onto his laptop. "For what it's worth," he said as he mopped up the slosh, "you're worth the crappy hours and constant worry that is your job, too."

            Castiel didn't tell Dean he had been giving some serious thought to the promotion that the department had grudgingly offered up after the dust settled on his take-down of El Chavo. He had broken every rule and had incurred a formal reprimand and standard suspension while the situation was investigated through Internal Affairs. All T's were crossed and I's were dotted, but in the end, the bottom line was that Castiel caught a very big fish, and from the Mayor to the Governor to the President everyone thought Cas deserved to move up in the ranks. Never mind that he was happy as a detective. Moving up would take him largely out of the line of fire, and he knew Dean worried.

            Claire texted again.

**\-- > Italian???**

            "Impatient isn't she?" Dean chuckled.

            "So?" Cas prompted. "Claire here for dinner?"

            "I'll make burgers.”

            "She loves to cook, Dean."

            Dean threw his head back and laughed long and loud. "She's really, really not going to be in the frame of mind to cook, Cas. Do you even _know_ what teenage girls are like? Hell, let’s have a slumber party.”

            Castiel smiled, “I think she’ll like that a lot.” He made plans for Claire and Silla to spend the night with him at Dean's, since the following day was Memorial Day and they'd be off from work and school.

 

            At five o'clock he made his way to Amelia's house, and when he got there, he took Silla out of the hot car to lounge in the front yard while he gathered his daughter and her things.

            "You brought Silla to pick me up?" Claire asked by way of greeting.

            "I'm taking you both to a friend's house. I’ve got something to talk to you about first, Claire-Bear.”

            “Just spit it out, Dad, like yanking off a band-aid,” she instructed sagely.

            “This might be difficult for you,” Cas warned.

            “Come on, you’ve been _not_ saying something for like three weeks. Is this about your leave of absence from work? Did they fire you? Are you pretending to go to work everyday but really drinking beer at the bowling alley?”

            Castiel gave her the side-eye. “Where do you get this stuff?”

            “Hulu.”

            “No, I want you to meet someone who is very important to me."

            Claire gasped outrageously, "You finally got a boyfriend!" She jumped up and down so much she spilled her St. Croix all over the porch and Silla stood up and woofed from the front yard.

            Castiel felt himself blush at her appalling enthusiasm over this unheard of event.

            She jumped on his reaction immediately, "Oh Emm Gee! You did get a boyfriend! What's he like? What's his name? Is he cute? Of course he's cute. You have good taste, after all. Does he have a job? Mom says that's a super important thing to consider. Well?"

            Castiel picked up his daughter's overnight bag and whistled to Silla. "He does have a job," he replied. "Sort of."

            "Sort of?" she asked skeptically, climbing into the Trailblazer.

            Castiel shut the back door once Silla was in. "He has a job," he stated more decisively.

            "Okaaaay," Claire prompted. "What about cuteness factor?"

            Cas grinned at her, "Devastatingly handsome."

            Her smile consumed her whole face just like Castiel’s did his as he started the car and the AC.

            “Has Silla met him? Does she approve? It’s not that Balthazar guy, is it?”

            “Silla has met him, and she approves. And what’s wrong with Balthazar? He’s a good friend.”

            “Well, at your birthday party, remember he had that skinny boyfriend?”

            Castiel didn’t want to supply the word “twink” so he stayed quiet.

            “Well,” Claire continued, “even though his boyfriend was there, he was flirting with you the whole time, even though anyone could see it really ticked the guy off.”

            “How observant of you, Sweet-pea. That’s just Balthazar’s personality.”

            She shrugged and then chattered incessantly for the next ten minutes or so until she started paying attention to where they were.

            "Where did you say he lives, Dad?" Claire asked as Castiel navigated along the green-banked Colorado River. They were nearing the country club, and the cars were more expensive here, the houses bigger. 

            "I didn't say."

            "Is he rich?"

            "That is an incredibly impolite thing to ask."

            "I'm not asking _him._ "

            "Well, you'll have to make that judgment for yourself after you meet him because I’ve never asked about his finances." Castiel turned up a private driveway and entered a code into a keypad in front of the gate.

            Claire whistled-- a low, impressed sound-- and looked askance at her father. For his part, Castiel pulled into the garage with his garage door remote and parked right next to Baby.

            "Oh wow! This looks just like Dean Winchester's car!" Claire enthused.

            "Does it?"

            Silla sniffed the perimeter of the garage before letting herself into the kitchen and sniffing Dean. He bent at the waist to receive her kisses and then planted his wet mouth right on Castiel's.

            "That's disgusting," Cas complained, and Dean only laughed before looking around for Claire.

            She stood at the kitchen door utterly frozen and dumbstruck until an expression of mounting panic rose on her countenance.

            "Dean, this is my girl, Claire."

            "Claire, this is my boyfriend, Dean."

            Cas had a big, happy, proud smile on his face for his two best people, and for his part, Dean smiled his mega-watt smile and dazzled the poor girl by taking her hand... until she began to cry and head back to the door. At first both men watched her run out, and Silla followed her. Then Castiel's face fell, and he felt helpless, but he manned-up and made for the door to follow his daughter and talk her down.

            "Claire? Sweetheart?"

            "Oh my God, go away," she sniffled.

            Cas approached closer to where she sat on the polished concrete floor of the garage with Silla valiantly trying to sit on her lap and give her a shoulder to cry on.

            "What's wrong, dumpling?"

            "My nose is all red," she whined. "My nose is red and runny, and my face is splotchy now, and I would never have worn this shirt! WHY DID YOU LET ME WEAR THIS SHIRT??"

            Castiel tried to look at her shirt, but Silla was completely in the way.

            "What’s wrong with the shirt, muffin?"

            "It's his second album cover," she wailed and then sniffed wetly.

            Cas kept approaching as one might approach a wounded beastie: with soft words and slow steps. Finally he got close enough to shove Silla to the side. The shirt had a Raven in flight on the front of it. Cas never would have known it was an album cover, let alone one of Dean's.

            "Come on, pumpkin, let's go clean up your face and change shirts, if that will help."

            "Stop calling me food!" she seethed.

            "Okay. I tell you what, I'll take you upstairs and you can clean up and change and come down when you're ready, alright?"

            Claire blinked up at him. Her face was, indeed blotchy, and her nose was indeed red and wet. "Why didn't you tell me?"

            Cas tilted his head. This little girl was his whole world, and he had hurt her. He never wanted to be the reason for her tears ever again. He knelt down. Silla, of course, tried to get in his lap, then, and he had to shove her off. "Claire, I should have told you. I should have mentioned him sooner, but it hasn't really been that long. At first I didn't know if it would last, and then I didn't want to get in the way of your stress over the big spring play at school. And then I didn't want to distract you from finals, and well... now seemed like the perfect time. I guess I got it wrong."

            Claire sniffled and shrugged. "I guess I see where you were coming from," she conceded. "But Dean Winchester?! Dean Freaking Winchester?!" she stage whispered.

            "He's really a great guy," Cas supplied and held a hand out to his daughter.

            She allowed him to help her up and pull her into a hug. "It seems like I was telling you all about him not too long ago."

            He chuckled. "Yes you were." He walked her to the back staircase and up to her room. "Your bathroom is through there," he pointed out, handing over her overnight bag. "Just come downstairs when you're ready. Do you want Silla to stay with you?"

            "Yeah."

            Cas snapped his fingers and pointed so the dog would sit beside the bed and take care of his girl.

_____

            

            Dean was ready. Cas had finally moved in when his lease was up in July, and Silla loved having even more territory than before. Now Christmas was coming, and there was nothing he could think of that would be a better present than a ring for the man he was mad about. There was just one little snag: He had to warn his manager this was coming so she could manage the backlash. It was one thing for Dean to marry—that could potentially cripple his career—but it was unfortunately a bigger deal that he would be marrying a man.

            It was Benny who convinced him to run it by Meg first. Charlie said it was none of Meg’s business, but Dean could see Benny’s point. This was precisely Meg’s business.

            She showed up right on time, as usual, and Dean decided that ripping the bandaid off was the best way to deliver the news to her.

            “Meg, I’m getting married.”

            She stared at him for about seven solid seconds, and then asked, “Who’s the lucky lady?” in the flattest possible voice.

            Dean brought up a picture of Cas on his phone and held it out to Meg.

            “No,” she stated unequivocally.

            “Yes, Meg.”

            “Dean,” she pinched the bridge of her nose like he was a toddler throwing a tantrum and she was on her last nerve. “No. Absolutely no. I won’t let you do this to your career. Not when ‘Eyes Like Knives’ is poised to go platinum. I’m sorry, but if all your adoring fans knew the song was about a dude, the backlash would be cataclysmic.”

            Dean frowned. “Meg, they know I’m bi.”

            “No Dean. It’s not real to them. To a vast majority of the public, you saying you’re bisexual translates to them as you’re looking forward to a threesome in _their_ bed with them and their boyfriend. You’re a casual-bi. You actually committing to a man will kill the sales.”

            “I don’t care about sales.”

            “Yes, you do. You haven’t even finished paying for last year’s tour and you’re about to do the promo circuit. Do you want all those late night TV spots to drop you?”

            “Let ‘em. Cas is more important to me than—“

            “—No. He’s not. Live with him if you want to, but if you marry that man before your contract with me is up, you’ll default on well over a million in financing for your tours and studio and crew and…”

            “I get it. Jesus.” Dean pulled at his hair. “I get it, Meg. Just go away now.”

            “Don’t get me wrong, Deano. I’m happy for you.”

            “Get out, please.”

            Dean sat down and pulled out his laptop. Maybe he was being hasty with the wedding plans. He opened the bookmarked page at Tiffany’s and typed in a new search—for bracelets this time. For now, anyway.

_____

 

            Castiel had a bit more gray in his weekend beard, and the laugh lines around Dean's eyes were deeper. Yet, Dean was still as playful and Cas as passionate as ever. 

            His passion meant he was misty eyed as he waited outside his daughter's room for her to emerge in her white gown, and Dean's playfulness was evident in the lyric he wrote for Claire and Kaia'a wedding song. He had taken the old tune that had started out as an ode to Castiel's sharp blue eyes and ended up his fourth platinum hit, and he had tweaked the words for Claire. 

            Dean fiddled with his onyx cufflinks and the heavy platinum ring in his pocket. It was about damn time he had the thing ready. Had it really been ten years since he had met Cas and his skinny little thirteen-year-old daughter with her long blonde hair and eyes red-rimmed from crying in panic? Laughing to himself, he watched Cas fidget in the hallway as he waited for Claire, and his laugh turned into a satisfied smile. If Dean looked like the cat that got the cream, he had a reason to. He'd struck gold with Detective Castiel Novak.

 

            Cas told himself to breathe. He was going to sweat through his suit at this rate. At moments like this he missed Silla's deep brown eyes that trusted him implicitly, as if to say, "You've got this." In his mind, the brown eyes morphed to green, and the trust was still overwhelming. Dean Winchester was by no means a light weight to carry through life, but he was never a burden. Cas couldn't remember the moment when he had realized that he finally understood one of his favorite books by Milan Kundera:  _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_.  He couldn't live without Dean, and that knowledge made him invincible. 

            When Claire emerged in her silky white cocktail gown, her bright blue eyes lit up Castiel's heart. "Hello, Claire-bear."

            "Hi, Dad."

            Maybe that happiness on her face would be Castiel's to give once more when he got on his knee to propose to the love of his life later tonight.


End file.
